Wood's reply, if he intended any, was cut short by a loud knocking at the door. But to choose this of all moments. "Winifred Wood will never marry, unless the grave can give up its dead. He remained standing by the stem of the proa, his glance roving investigatingly. Strongly impregnated with the mingled odours of tobacco, ale, brandy, and other liquors, the atmosphere was almost stifling. Knew something was up. She saw Lucy darkening her doorstep and stood from the recliner. Every now and then she fingered an ornament, moved a piece of furniture, or rearranged some draperies. More strange stories were told of it than of any other house in London. There is a button loose on that coat under your pillow.
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