I came to London to look for you, and somehow the figure I saw in my dreams had got mixed up with you. He’s waiting. He had not bothered to take off his raincoat and his umbrella sat dripping on his modern ice cube of a table. And God had let him do it! He was—and now he perfectly understood that he was—treading the queerest labyrinth a man had ever entered. "You'd better surrender quietly, Jack," he cried; "you've no chance.
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