To the end?
“Is he dead?” asked Mendel.
“Next door to it,” said the policeman. “The woman’s done in.”
“Where?”
“At the Pot-au-Feu, Soho.”
“Where is he now?”
“Workhouse infirmary. If you want to see him the police will raise no objection.”
“Thank you,” said Mendel.
He asked the direction and set out at once.
The workhouse was a dull grey mass of buildings, rising out of a dull grey district like an inevitable creation of its dullness, and it seemed an inevitable contrast to the Merlin’s Cave, so that it was right that Logan should walk out of the glitter into it. This was the very contrast that Mendel’s imagination had been vainly seeking, and now, with the violence of a sudden release, his thoughts began to work again. . . . Oliver was dead. That was inevitable too. But why?