Then Jones dismissed him.
The light was becoming clearer and clearer. Here was another member of the gang, another instrument of Marcus Mulhausen.
“To-morrow,” said Jones to himself, “I will go for these chaps. Voles is the key to the lot of them, and I have Voles completely under my thumb.”
Then he put the matter from his mind for a while, and fell to thinking of the girl—his wife—Rochester’s wife.
The strange thought came to him that she was a widow and did not know it.
He dined out that night, going to a little restaurant in Soho, and he returned to bed early, so as to be fresh for the business of the morrow.
He had looked himself up again in “Who’s Who,” and found that his wife’s name was Teresa. Teresa. The name pleased him vaguely, and now that he had captured it, it stuck like a burr in his mind. If he could only make good over the Mulhausen proposition, re-capture that mine, prove himself—would she, if he told her all—would she—?
He fell asleep murmuring the word Teresa.