“What’s that young lady’s name—girl in dark brown, stranger here?” Mr. You were with your mother, the two of you huddled like thieves, laughing at the silly women who tried to shield themselves from rain by cowering under empty baskets and shawls. But I mustn't think of these things, or I shall grow mad. Why? Because Howard Spurlock the author dared not risk the liberty of Howard Spurlock the malefactor; because there were still some dregs in this cup of irony. ‘He can’t be Valade, that’s certain,’ mused Gerald, unheeding.
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