“Indeed,” she said, “it was very fortunate that I should have met you this afternoon. . He declined to come in. Inhuman as he is, he would not kill her. I’m sorry. He wished he had the time to solve this riddle, for it was a riddle, and four-square besides. At once there came an answering knock. That she possessed any sense of humour was in itself one of those human miracles which metaphysicians are always pothering over without arriving anywhere; for her previous environment had been particularly humourless. Passing at a glance over the whole of the intervening period; leaving in the words of the poet, —The growth untried Of that wide gap— we shall resume our narrative at the beginning of June, 1715.
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