“Not home yet, miss,” the young man replied. If nothing else had clinched that, the purse had. 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. You will stop at once. And don't worry about the six thousand, Hoddy. The chance it is the same for both.
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