His hand shook violently as he carried the tube to the table.
The strain of the day, the anxiety of the past hours, with
their final failure, had found sudden expression. Mixing a
larger dose than any he had before allowed himself, he
swallowed it hastily, and, walking across the room, threw
himself, fully dressed, upon the bed.
IV
To those whose sphere lies in the west of London, Fleet Street
is little more than a name, and Clifford's Inn a mere dead
letter. Yet Clifford's Inn lies as safely stowed away in the
shadow of the Law Courts as any grave under a country church
wall; it is as green of grass, as gray of stone, as
irresponsive to the passing footstep.
Facing the railed-in grass-plot of its little court stood the
house in which John Loder had his rooms. Taken at a first
glance, the house had the deserted air of an office, inhabited
only in the early hours; but, as night fell, lights would be
seen to show out, first on one floor, then on another--faint,
human beacons unconsciously signalling each other.
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