It was a large, littered, self-forgetful apartment, decorated with unframed charcoal sketches by various incipient masters; and an open bookcase, surmounted by plaster casts and the half of a human skull, displayed an odd miscellany of books—Shaw and Swinburne, Tom Jones, Fabian Essays, Pope and Dumas, cheek by jowl. She never knew what became of her farmer after that. "I did see them on the platform of the bridge—the child and his preserver! They were not struck by the fallen ruin, nor whelmed in the roaring flood,—or, if they were, they escaped as I escaped. "Strange!" observed the Master; "I thought he'd been at my elbow all this time. Then he stepped briskly to his feet and bent over the wounded man. ’ Amazed, Melusine stared at him. His conscience, however, was entirely another affair. ‘I find this was excessively clever of Gérard. I wish”— she found she had embarked on a bad sentence—“I wish we needn’t have quarrelled. ” “You did not notice anything which may have escaped this lady? You saw no one leave the flats?” “No one,” Brendon answered.
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