He was about to cut the sergeant short, when his eye fell on a gentleman walking along Piccadilly, his manner uncertain, his eyes shifting as if he sought something out. Narrow little beady brown eyes, and she’s got big eyebrows like dead caterpillars. A small handgun bobbed at the end of it, aimed at Sheila. Urging his steed along Oxford Road,— as that great approach to the metropolis was then termed,—he soon passed Marylebone Lane, beyond which, with the exception of a few scattered houses, the country was completely open on the right, and laid out in pleasant fields and gardens; nor did he draw in the rein until he arrived at Tyburn-gate, where, before he turned off upon the Edgeware Road, he halted for a moment, to glance at the place of execution. "The end is the most beautiful in English literature. For whom had its sharp point been intended? Valade? Or perhaps his wife now that the girl had word of their marriage. He was conscious of a quickening of his heartbeat and the familiar rise of adrenalin that sent his senses soaring in anticipation. “Well——” She stopped short.
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