It was an intimate smell, the unmistakable scent of him and another woman. Sheppard, whose maternal fears drew her in another direction, hurried off to the Mint. Listening at one of the doors leading to the Master Debtors' side, he heard a loud voice chanting a Bacchanalian melody, and the boisterous laughter that accompanied the song, convinced him that no suspicion was entertained in this quarter. Remember what the conjuror said. There were sidetables and a writing table, similarly buried in bric-a-brac, and the chair by the French doors could hardly be seen for blankets. "It is too late.
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