" "Oh! let me die," groaned the widow. She clenched her hands together and leaned forward in her chair, gazing steadily into the fire. He will be sorry when he knows who I am,’ decided Melusine with satisfaction. I want you. She spent the morning up to ten in writing a series of unsuccessful letters to Ramage, which she tore up unfinished; and finally she desisted and put on her jacket and went out into the lamp-lit obscurity and slimy streets. She knew the truth of it all right. ‘He is not in England, you understand. ‘It was your son who left the place empty then?’ he asked. The unknown, previously so attractive, now presented another face—blank. ‘Let us go elsewhere and discuss the matter.
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