” She turned and fitted the latchkey into the door. “I liked him, and I never undeceived him. ” “Straight?” “Not a bit of it! He’s been out after eight per cent. His hand traveled below her loose neckline, and he cupped her round breast in his hand. Sheppard. Only her face was clear, frail and delicate, almost flower-like, with the sad haunting eyes ever watching his. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure. I think not. Then he had gone away. Send for Mr. Kneebone, a woollen-draper in Wych Street, with whose pockets, it appears, Jack, when a lad, made a little too free.
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