But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. It must be the dawn creeping in. "Lor' ha' mussy, Sir!—how you do talk," said the woman; "this is no robber, I'm sure. Knives were worse, especially when you were stabbed back and left traces of your own blood at the crime scene. Forthwith he presented his card. That's the only fault I know of. He caressed her tenderly, with no trace of the Sebastian who had previously knocked her off her feet with a slap across the mouth. I’ll feel fine as soon as I get out of my wet clothes.
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