To be confronted with the girl’s damned Frenchman of a husband was another matter altogether. At the corner of Liquorpond Street stood the old Hampstead coach-office; and, on the night in question, a knot of hostlers, waggoners, drivers, and stable-boys was collected in the yard. She vanished from the laboratory for a week, a week of oddly interesting days. Stanley professed a great solicitude to warm his hands. You lack only that mechanical knack of expression which is the least important part of an artist’s equipment, but which remains a tedious and absolute necessity. She ought to have been disposed to faint and scream at all these happenings; she ought to have maintained a front of outraged dignity to veil the sinking of her heart. ‘Beg pardon, sir?’ asked the sergeant, evidently mystified. ” He shook her hands off almost roughly.
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