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 will be murdered!—Help!" "My child!—my love!" cried Wood, dragging her forcibly back. I've got to know why. "I've been wondering, until this morning, if you were real. It’s the poor dears who do, who know they will, know they can’t keep it up, who need to clutch at way-side flowers. But why do you ask?" "Because—" stammered the boy. She looked upon it with pity as she drank his diabetic blood and saw that several of his fingers were missing. "Stolen by a gipsy when scarcely five years old, Constance Trenchard, after various vicissitudes, was carried to London, where she lived in great poverty, with the dregs of society. We had no idea. I'll lay my life he's gone. There was nothing left now of the selfassured, prosperous man of affairs. The worst was over now.
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