" "Could I credit your wild story, I might do so," returned Thames, with a look of perplexity. It was a large, littered, self-forgetful apartment, decorated with unframed charcoal sketches by various incipient masters; and an open bookcase, surmounted by plaster casts and the half of a human skull, displayed an odd miscellany of books—Shaw and Swinburne, Tom Jones, Fabian Essays, Pope and Dumas, cheek by jowl. He stood back, smiling with an air of proprietorship, and looking about him at the business-like equipment of the room. “Splendid it must be to be a composer. Another horn now resounded from the further extremity of the thoroughfare; this was answered by a third; and presently a fourth, and more remote blast, took up the note of alarm. What was his astonishment to recognise in the few words they uttered the voices of Kneebone and Winifred! The latter was apparently in great distress, and the former seemed to be using his best efforts to relieve her anxiety. Beside me on Anna’s table was a pistol. “We parted— that night the best of friends. Come to take leave. " At the sound of his voice every vestige of colour fled from Winifred's cheeks, and the work upon which she was engaged fell from her hand. " "I do not say that what you have done is wrong in any sense.
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