Wood wound it up by a description of the drenching he had undergone at the Mint pump, the other could hold out no longer, but, leaning back in his chair, gave free scope to his merriment. “The one who used to live at Lyndmore. Think, ma’am. He beheld a tall gaunt man, his brown face corrugated like a winter's road, grim, stony. "Well, well, we'll say no more about it," replied Wood; "and, by way of changing the subject, let me advise you on no account to fly to strong waters for consolation, Joan. "I never told anybody," she went on. But perhaps I had better get a room in an hotel to-night and look round. She pointed across the road. And I think also that Gosse—I mean that one who calls himself Valade—stole it. Then he stood up and hailed a fiacre.
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