She found herself mildly entertained by staring at the houses through the rain as she walked home, all cast in a gray blurry film noir gauze of rain. Drummond took up a cigarette and lit it. She wanted to take him in her arms and hush him, but she sat perfectly still. The first time, I overlooked the offence; but the second time, when I had planned to break open the house of his master, the fellow who visited you to-night,—Wood, the carpenter of Wych Street,—he betrayed me. I hear the sound of his horse's feet in the yard. He spoke in quick nervous sentences. To be confronted with the girl’s damned Frenchman of a husband was another matter altogether.
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