He wanted to know what the joke against him was—if any. She walked down the station approach, past the neat, obtrusive offices of the coal merchant and the house agent, and so to the wicket-gate by the butcher’s shop that led to the field path to her home. "Miss Enschede—such an odd name!—are you French?" "Oh, no. "Woman, your wits are fled!" And so it seemed; for all the answer she could make was to murmur distractedly, "I can't find the key. "Lor' ha' mussy, Sir!—how you do talk," said the woman; "this is no robber, I'm sure. "I knew it.
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