He looked up to see an ancient coach making its ponderous way down the street. He was a square-faced man of nearly fifty, with iron-gray hair a mobile, cleanshaven mouth and rather protuberant black eyes that now scrutinized Ann Veronica. But Gerald wouldn’t hear of it. In any event, I explained that no one lived here and that we’d been called in because of suspected intruders. He swung it open and then used his body to pin her against her seat. He found a coach at the door, with the blinds carefully drawn up, and ascertained from a tall, ill-looking, though tawdrily-dressed fellow, who held his horse by the bridle, and whom he addressed as Quilt Arnold, that the two boys were safe inside, in the custody of Abraham Mendez, the dwarfish Jew. I was forced to lay on a bed of nails for three days.
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