Gerald did not know who she was, but he knew who she was not. A grimy, battered object, which had no place in the fashionable quarter of town. Her family had hosted a feast in his honor for which they had taken weeks to prepare: with braised capons and lobster sausages and all sorts of delicious spiced stews her mother had made from secret recipes. And for twelve years he has been so; until his long security, well-nigh obliterating remembrance of the deed, has bred almost a sense of innocence within his breast. The first time, I overlooked the offence; but the second time, when I had planned to break open the house of his master, the fellow who visited you to-night,—Wood, the carpenter of Wych Street,—he betrayed me. Where is he?" "Within this room," replied the knight.
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