The young man's imagination suddenly pictured the man as a rock, loosed from its ancient bed, crumbling as it fell. Wood was unable to discover the figure of the widow, but he recognised her dry, hacking cough, and was about to call her down, if she could not find the key, as he imagined must be the case, when a loud noise was heard, as though a chest, or some weighty substance, had fallen upon the floor. " "You have extradition papers?" "What sort of a detective do you think I am?" countered O'Higgins. I don't know whose brainless head it may be, but it'll do for my collection. Though there is something to be said for your idea of a secret convent, at least as a hiding place. And, in spite of the boy's resistance, he plunged his hands into his pockets, and drew forth the miniature. I am apparently a beast, a pig and an imbecile, too, if memory serves me. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is.
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