Ramage came for her at her lodgings, and she met him graciously and kindly as a queen who knows she must needs give sorrow to a faithful liege. To-morrow I shall come and talk to you again—of other things. Madame shrugged. He smiled tenderly. In Wych Street Owen Wood did dwell; A carpenter he was by trade, And money, I believe, he made. From the further end of the apartment came the low music of a violin. “You have not seen your sister lately,” he remarked. Here was a little corner of the past—a tragic corner. It was enough. He moved her dress from her shoulders and off her torso. She had adored the stupid thing, and kept it in her pocket for about ten years. Wait a moment.
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