The scene shifts to London—London, so indifferent, so cruel, so drab a city to those whom she is stranger, not mother.
Harry Garlett and Dr. Maclean had gone to a city hotel where they felt sure that they would run little risk of meeting any one from their part of the world.
And it was there, within sound of what he vaguely felt to be the comforting roar of London’s busiest traffic, that Garlett paced up and down a big private sitting room in the cold, foggy atmosphere of a December afternoon, while he waited for the doctor’s return from the Criminal Investigation Department of the Home Office.
At last he stopped and looked at his watch. But for the cruel man or woman who had written the anonymous letters of which Dr. Maclean had told him, he and Jean would by now have been man and wife
