It was now a quarter past twelve. The house had in fact been converted into a convent, but the fact could not be advertised, not even in the Catholic enclave that existed in this part of town. Vexation at his folly in suffering himself to be thus entrapped kept Wood for a short time silent. "Confusion! the rascal must have picked my pocket of your letters," whispered Kneebone, "What's to be done?" "What's to be done! Why, I'm undone! How imprudent in you not to burn them. ‘Imbecile. For a while they stood there, silent, motionless, staring at the doorway where still a few strings of the bamboo curtain swayed and twisted, agitated by the Wastrel's passage. He took her hands firmly in his and raised them to his lips. "Well, he won't do that here.
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