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. Wood became sensible that he was not alone. Aware of the footman hovering, and the hackney coachman’s curious eyes looking down from his box, Gerald leaned a little towards her and spoke in a lowered tone. A queer nut. ’ ‘Yes, I know,’ Gerald put in with an irrepresssible chuckle. “Dear me!” he said. ’ For the moment I thought it was a telegram from Gwen. Wood's house at Dollis Hill on Tuesday'—that's two days ago,—'hasn't been heard of since. Still, it was true about men.
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