Thames said not another word, but marched boldly towards him, and seized him by the collar. Hot coffee and cakes were sent in to them in the morning by some intelligent sympathizer, or she would have starved all day. His gangling body was clothed in rusty twill trousers and a long black seersucker coat, buttoned to the throat, around which ran a collar which would have marked him the world over as a man of the Word. Another car followed, a rusty Cadillac sedan full of kids. You see, my riddle is solved. 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. “Well,” he said, argumentatively, “it IS. THAMES DARRELL.
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