But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. He was caked with dried muck. She tried for her usual confident tone, but only succeeded in sounding gruff, even to her own ears. Both advanced towards it, when, by the light of the lantern, Wood beheld, in the countenance of the stranger, the well-remembered and stern features of Rowland. He, therefore, desires to interrogate him. For it was but logical that she would seek a divorce on the ground that she had unknowingly married a fugitive from justice. ‘Hang it all, Mrs Sindlesham is right! You are two of a kind. ’ The full story—or as much as Gerald knew—of Valade’s machinations shocked the old lady so much that she was obliged to recruit her strength with a refill from the Madeira decanter. And that would spoil it. .
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