Kneebone, who had drained his glass to the restoration of the house of Stuart, and the downfall of the house of Hanover, more frequently than was consistent with prudence, consented; and the trio set out for Wych Street, where they arrived in the jolliest humour possible. She reached a tiny yellow-fronted cottage covered with flowering creepers, and entered the front room by the wide-open window. He might have been a complete innocent, she did not know and did not bother to find out. Had he been sick in the mind when he had done this damnable thing? It did not seem possible, for he could recall clearly all he had said and done; there were no blank spaces to give him one straw of excuse. She refused to eat. “Please forgive me—for one moment,” she sobbed.
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