Why should they be? She and Ramage were friends, very good friends. She looked at him curiously. She rapped again, louder. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. Couldn’t fit it inside, but the horse’s blanket lay over it, and, like I said, as long as no one rides him and don’t remove the blanket, I think it’ll stay hid. They WERE weird. Then he turned round and gazed thoughtfully at the particular spot in the fog where Courtlaw had disappeared. “MY DEAR VERONICA,—Your aunt tells me you have involved yourself in some arrangement with the Widgett girls about a Fancy Dress Ball in London. He is Jacques. She was given a glimpse of his soul.
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