“Good-bye, John,” she said simply. ‘Melusine, if you don’t let go my hand—’ He broke off as she dragged a pocket handkerchief from her sleeve. To-night she had a curious feeling that she stood upon the threshold of some change. He donned his winter coat. ‘He prayeth best who loveth best—all things both great and small. ’ ‘Compel me? You do not know me, monsieur. Kneebone, a woollen-draper in Wych Street, with whose pockets, it appears, Jack, when a lad, made a little too free.
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