“I have loved you,” he was saying, “ever since you sat on that gate and talked. The detective reckoned that his quarry would be up in ten days more. Nevertheless Sydney, clumsily, but earnestly, had something to say about it. He looked at his port wine as though that tawny ruby contained the solution of the matter. “What a fool I am!” he muttered, standing up on the hearthrug, and leaning his elbows upon the broad mantelpiece. At this time of day the priest would be at his apartments in Brewer Street, a short walk away from Golden Square which the building overlooked. “I am convinced you haven’t thought this out,” he went on. If I'd been in the way, instead of Jonathan Wild, that accident wouldn't have happened. In a sense I don’t care. " CHAPTER VI.
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