“Can’t stop, thanks,” he answered. When the turnkey, next morning, stepp'd into his room, The sight of the hole in the wall struck him dumb; The sheriff's black bracelets lay strewn on the ground, But the lad that had worn 'em could nowhere be found. "The warrant for his execution is arrived. Was it VERY horrible? I tried to get into the police-court, but the crowd was ever so much too big, push as I would. ’ He frowned again. " So saying, he slung it upon his wrist. Superstition—you knock into it whichever way you turn. These thoughts, however, came to a broken end. Like most officers, he’d had it especially made, for a man who loved danger had need of a precision instrument of defence. Widgett was a journalist and art critic, addicted to a greenish-gray tweed suit and “art” brown ties; he smoked corncob pipes in the Avenue on Sunday morning, travelled third class to London by unusual trains, and openly despised golf.
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