That night, she hunted the alleyways of the old town. He seated himself before it. She opened her suitcase—new and smelling strongly of leather—and took out of it a book, dogeared and precariously held together, bound in faded blue cloth and bearing the inscription: The Universal Handbook. There you are, the best client’s chair. I’ve paid for you and helped you, and I’m going to conquer you somehow—if I have to break you to do it. She arrived about nine o’clock the next evening in a state of tremulous enthusiasm. Mind, I, Baptist Kettleby, say so. Instinct had forced her to create something out of rags to satisfy a mysterious craving. But a little daughter is one thing and a daughter quite another. You never can tell. But this wild scheme was speedily abandoned; and, nerved by despair, the carpenter resolved to hazard an attempt, from the execution, almost from the contemplation, of which he had hitherto shrunk. “I repeat, gentlemen,” he said, in an ominously low tone, “what of it?” Drummond shrugged his shoulders.
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