He walked through the misty September night to his rooms. " With no little effort—for the right words had a way of tumbling back out of reach—he marshalled his phrases, and as he uttered them, closed his eyes to lessen the possibility of a break. Suffer me to precede you. She went on from street to street, and all the glory of London had departed. The air was sharp and bracing, and the leaves which had taken their autumnal tints were falling from the trees. Perhaps an hour passed before she laid aside the book. And, in fact, all round the problem you don’t know and I don’t see how I could possibly have told you before. Tristan dying and Isolde coming to crown his death. ” He dropped his eye-glass with a clatter. ‘He can’t be Valade, that’s certain,’ mused Gerald, unheeding.
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