"Let me see," replied Wood; "exactly twelve years ago last November. "Hark 'ee, Ben," said the old sailor, knocking the ashes from his pipe upon the hob; "you may try, but dash my timbers if you'll ever cross the Thames to-night. She turned there, clasped her hands behind her back and put up her chin. She kept him talking all the way to the doorstep of the Beck's home, a small 1970s brown split-level in the old part of town. You must have figured that out by now. The latter no sooner beheld him than he dashed hastily into an adjoining room.
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