"The end is the most beautiful in English literature. Sir James Thornhill, then, rose. “And what was that dreadful confession you had to make?” he was saying. It was not without considerable demur and delay on the part of Sharples that the carpenter and his companion could gain admittance to the round-house. “You met no one upon the stairs, or saw no one leave the flats?” “No one,” Anna answered firmly. From his wallet he brought forth a yellow letter. “No, he wouldn’t come here of all places—just now. I've a shrewd guess where he's taken refuge; but I'll ferret him out.
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