Chapter VIII “WHITE’S” Northwards, away from the inhospitality of West Kensington, rumbled the ancient four-wheel cab, laden with luggage and drawn by a wheezy old horse rapidly approaching its last days. His treatment of his wife is most unsatisfactory. Returning to the audience-chamber in a by-no-means enviable state of mind, he commanded the Jew to throw the body of Thames into the Well Hole. So the young fool had not told her! McClintock had suspected as much. She could smell him almost as strongly as she could the new paint on the fire escape walls, along with the wool suit and the weird polyester smell of his wet umbrella. The first was to break a dinner engagement. And I think also that Gosse—I mean that one who calls himself Valade—stole it. Wood's, the carpenter in Wych Street.
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