Chapter XI THE PUZZLEMENT OF NIGEL ENNISON Nigel Ennison walked towards his club the most puzzled man in London. Like a nightmare memory that returned again and again to haunt her. I was—I was a corespondent. The man’s hand flashed out, but immediately afterwards an oath and a cry of pain broke from his lips. This person—this Jonathan Wild, whom I beheld for the first time, scarcely an hour ago, in Wych Street, is—I know not why—my enemy.
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