Earles drew out his cheque book. “Oh yes,” said Miss Klegg; “I thought every one knew. No! I do not even know that he cares for me. ‘Oh, are there? You are not quite alone in these adventures of yours, I take it. In Wych Street Owen Wood did dwell; A carpenter he was by trade, And money, I believe, he made. From the further end of the apartment came the low music of a violin. He was alert, well-groomed, and yet—perhaps in contrast with the more volatile French type—there was a suggestion of weight about him, not to say heaviness.
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