There was a tearing sound as the canvas gave way, and the precious portrait ripped apart as the top of the Frenchman’s head came through it. ‘That I do not yet know. The big gray spaces of London, the shop-lit, greasy, shining streets, had become very remote; the biological laboratory with its work and emotions, the meetings and discussions, the rides in hansoms with Ramage, were like things in a book read and closed. During this dreadful pause the wretched man felt for his sword. He had buckled on his hanger, and had two brace of pistols in his belt, as well as others in this holsters. “She has nothing to be afraid of,” he continued. This he accomplished by holding the chain that connected them firmly between his teeth, and squeezing his fingers as closely together as possible, succeeded in drawing his wrists through the manacles. He slapped his knee.
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