Wood's favourite sitting-room, and her image was so intimately associated with it, neither the carpenter nor his daughter could muster courage to enter it before. A black-garbed figure crept forward, noiselessly, towards Gosse’s back. And like that gospel it meant something, something different from its phrases, something elusive, and yet something that in spite of the superficial incoherence of its phrasing, was largely essentially true. She sprang to her feet and stood listening with parted lips and eager eyes. “There was an accident with a pistol in Miss Pellissier’s room,” he said. "Well, Sir?" cried the other, eagerly. I—I don’t understand,” the man faltered wearily.
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