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"Look at these fetters," returned Thames, holding up his manacled wrists; "they were put on by my uncle's command. The poor wretch, driven by desperation to the commission of a crime which her soul abhors, is no more beyond the hope of reformation than she is without the pale of mercy. He would get her to come to tea with him, usually in a pleasant tea-room over a fruit-shop in Tottenham Court Road, and he would discuss his own point of view and hint at a thousand devotions were she but to command him. Her sister had told him that it was true. Brown or Jones, I dare say.
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