He was standing by, rating her ladyship,—who can scarcely stir from the sofa,—while I was packing up her jewels in the case, and I observed that she tried to hide a small casket from him. Oh, you must believe me. Somebody tricked you back yonder—baited you for spite. It was his redemption, his ticket out of hell—that blue-serge coat. Petite build, like herself. He looked at her with a certain curiosity. Old Newgate 302 X. Murder, I say, has been done! Another murder will be committed if you don't prevent it. En tout cas, why had he not returned? She pondered the question as, later, she paced about her favourite retreat. “I never planned it—And now I have begun—” She felt acutely that he was entitled to explanations, and as acutely that explanations were impossible that night. ‘So this is Pottiswick’s French spy. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him.
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