The doctor paced the room half a dozen times. They sat face to face beneath an experienced-looking rucksack and a brand new portmanteau and a leather handbag, in the afternoon-boat train that goes from Charing Cross to Folkestone for Boulogne. . His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. ‘What’s wrong, miss? Ain’t I done right?’ Melusine’s mind was reeling, but she reached out and seized his wrist. Peste, where was her handkerchief? She remembered then that it had been lost in the struggle with Gerald. Come in! Come in, do. Deserted by his older companion in iniquity, and instigator to crime, he did not know what might become of him; nor, as we have observed, was the sad spectacle he had just witnessed, without effect. “Everything will follow,” she said. A trial always brings those involved into public notice, and I dare say he feels there will be scandal enough without adding to it.
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