"Perhaps," replied Wood, doubtfully. She was greatly exercised by the problem of confiding in the Widgetts; they were dears, and she talked away two evenings with Constance without broaching the topic; she made some vague intimations in letters to Miss Miniver that Miss Miniver failed to mark. It isn't as if he were stricken with typhoid or pneumonia or something like that. “Do you play an instrument?” “I play the fiddle sometimes. He got out in much the same way from the Gatehouse,—stole the keys, and passed through a room where I was sitting half-asleep in a chair. Wood, then, beheld two persons, one of whom he recognised as Rowland, spring on board the chase. Let me keep you from that man’s clutches. I love him as a brother.
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