Anyhow, she’s disappeared for some reason or other. I have a certain standing not only as a singer but as a critic, and I belong to one of the most brilliant causerie dinner clubs of the day, in which successful Bohemianism, politicians, men of affairs, artists, sculptors, and cultivated noblemen generally, mingle together in the easiest and most delightful intercourse. The girl was like some north-country woodland pool, penetrated by a single shaft of sunlight—beautifully clear in one spot and mysteriously obscured elsewhere. She explained she was expecting an important interview, and asked that her visitor should be duly shown in. The spy—if there was one hiding out in the late Jarvis Remenham’s empty house—would be taken unawares. Bowing to the stranger, the woollen-draper very politely requested to know his business. Sheppard, faintly. “There’s no one here except me. . .
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