After a while he spoke again. “But, how,” he said, sitting up astonished beyond measure, “not go on?” “I have been thinking while you have been talking. “If one half of the stories about Meysey Hill are true,” he answered, “I would not stretch out my little finger to save his life. Such was the hubbub and tumult around him, that the carpenter could not hear its plunge into the flood. It did not cheer or fortify him with false courage and recklessness; it simply enveloped him in a mist of unreality. “No!” he said aloud at last. He was a London man of business, spending a small legacy in Paris. Annabel had spoken calmly enough and steadily, but his brain refused at first to accept the full meaning of her words. He yielded his place and struck instead with his tongue.
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