“You are coming in, aren’t you, Sydney?” “If I may,” he answered. Come on. Jackson, mean time, produced a pocket-book; and, after deliberately sharpening the point of a pencil, began to write on a blank leaf. At last, a little way to the northward of Euston Road, the moral cloud seemed to lift, the moral atmosphere to change; clean blinds appeared in the windows, clean doorsteps before the doors, a different appeal in the neatly placed cards bearing the word ————————————— | APARTMENTS ————————————— | in the clear bright windows. When you've admitted him, steal into the room, hide yourself, and don't move till I utter the words, 'You've a long journey before you.
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