Explore "The Iron Grip" by Edgar Wallace on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
It was ten o'clock on a foggy November night, and Jack Bryce was literally groping his way to his Bloomsbury lodgings, and had, in fact, reached the street where he lived, when out of the gloom approached two strangers. It was too dark to see their faces, but from their hang-dog carriage he mentally classified them as members of that strange underworld of London which is peopled alike by the mendicant and the crook, who differ very little in appearance.
"Excuse me, guv'nor," said one of the men, "is your name Bryce?"