“I cannot but conclude,” he said, “that your errand involved the recital to my wife of some trouble in which you find yourself. Sheppard, struggling to get free. Perceiving he was about to take leave, Kneebone ventured to ask whom he had had the honour of addressing. ‘But I have the pistol,’ Gerald pointed out. The end of the world seemed at hand. He was about to cut the sergeant short, when his eye fell on a gentleman walking along Piccadilly, his manner uncertain, his eyes shifting as if he sought something out. All his interest in Ruth, all his care and solicitude, could now be translated into a single word—love.
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