She is called Madame Ibstock, you understand. Something that is born anew each time we meet, and pines when we are separated. The flowers upon the mantel-shelf were withered and drooping—she had gathered them. She looked at her for a moment fixedly. ‘I told you I could handle her. “My wife refused absolutely to have anything more to do with me. The wretch you confide in has sworn to hang you. ‘You are jealous!’ ‘Yes,’ he agreed simply. All the turnkeys rose to salute the thief-taker, whose habitually-sullen countenance looked gloomier than usual.
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