Gerald kicked the panelled wall in frustration. You don’t know about Mary because you live in Kent. In privacy he read and reread it a dozen times, and eventually destroyed it by fire. She could hear the bell tinkle as the horse shook its head. It was a gorgeous May evening, the air redolent with the soapy purple scents of hyacinth and lilac. The two hostlers, however, kept close at his heels; and Jack, whose strength began to flag, feared he could not hold much longer. “But—your people!” she gasped. And then at the street corner she came face to face with Nigel Ennison.
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