He could not pull her soul apart now to satisfy that queer absorbing, delving thing which was his literary curiosity; he had put her outside that circle. She spent the morning up to ten in writing a series of unsuccessful letters to Ramage, which she tore up unfinished; and finally she desisted and put on her jacket and went out into the lamp-lit obscurity and slimy streets. ‘You mean there isn’t any evidence of a break-in. ‘But what way, Emile?’ ‘Your family, mademoiselle, the family of your father. “I wonder what you could do?” he said. Why he paid so much attention to Sir James Thornhill may be explained anon.
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