It seemed to flare over Fleet Street and somehow made the actual spot distressingly humble: there was so little for it to feed on unless he counted the blisters of our stucco or saw his way to do something with the roses.

Even the poor roses were common kinds.

Presently his eyes fell on the manuscript from which Paraday had been reading to me and which still lay on the bench.
As my own followed them I saw it looked promising, looked pregnant, as if it gently throbbed with the life the reader had given it.

Mr.Morrow indulged in a nod at it and a vague thrust of his umbrella.

"What's that ?" "Oh, it's a plan--a secret." "A secret!" There was an instant's silence, and then Mr.Morrow made another movement.