Arrived at Westbourne-Green—then nothing more than a common covered with gorse and furzebushes, and boasting only a couple of cottages and an alehouse—he perceived through the hedges the objects of his search slowly ascending the gentle hill that rises from KensallGreen. He was a philosopher. He returned the locket without comment. “Act three. There stepped forth a tall brown man. On these were thrown all the horrible contents of Jonathan's museum, together with the body of Sir Rowland Trenchard. ‘That is why I have come to England, you understand. He would get her to come to tea with him, usually in a pleasant tea-room over a fruit-shop in Tottenham Court Road, and he would discuss his own point of view and hint at a thousand devotions were she but to command him. You are—or rather you were——” he corrected himself with an unpleasant little laugh, “Miss Pellissier, eh?” A little sensation followed upon his words.
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