Chapter XI THE PUZZLEMENT OF NIGEL ENNISON Nigel Ennison walked towards his club the most puzzled man in London. A bad one in a rough-and-tumble; all the water-front tricks. She would come back and write letters, carefully planned and written letters, or read some book she had fetched from Mudie’s—she had invested a half-guinea with Mudie’s—or sit over her fire and think. Sorrow lay in the back of his mind as he withdrew, but he put it aside. He rose deliberately to his feet and confronted them. “I suppose I should let go if I had. No one had lived here since old man Remenham had died some eighteen months ago, for the heir, so it was rumoured, was a relative with property of his own. But shortly this movement ceased.
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