" "Then it was not a dream!" ejaculated Sir Rowland in a hollow voice, and as if speaking to himself. Anna watched her from the windows, watched the carriage jolt away along the cobbled street and disappear. The odour of kerosene permeated the bungalow; but Ruth mitigated the nuisance to some extent by burning native punk in brass jars. “Well,” he said slowly, “I had met you three times—before Drummond’s dinner. Her clock had stopped—stopped at the very hour on which she had quitted the Mint! She had not the heart to wind it up again.
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