" "You have no son," rejoined Sir Rowland, moodily. “The twins were left with his sister, Cris. I know now what it is to be an abandoned female. ‘We may have to,’ Gerald answered thoughtfully, staring at the window to one side. Standing on tiptoe, on a joint-stool, placed upon the bench, with his back to the door, and a clasp-knife in his hand, this youngster, instead of executing his appointed task, was occupied in carving his name upon a beam, overhead. The prison was two stories high, with a flat roof surmounted by a gilt vane fashioned like a key; and, possessing considerable internal accommodation, it had, in its day, lodged some thousands of disorderly personages. “There’s the whole situation. Unconscious that his movements were watched, Shotbolt, meanwhile, hastened towards Wych Street. If only there had not been this single torturing thought—a mere pin-prick, but still curiously persistent. “You must come home to him at once,” said Miss Stanley.
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