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He could have easily forced it, but preferred a more expeditious mode of reaching the roof which suggested itself to him. Wood. Here goes. She moved towards it slowly and picked it up, holding it out in front of her whilst the familiar perfume seemed to assert itself with damning insistence. Stanley came home at a quarter to six—an earlier train by fifteen minutes than he affected—his sister met him in the hall with a hushed expression. “H’m!” he said, regarding the wreckage with a calmer visage. In her little sitting-room she turned on the electric light and looked around half fearfully. Sydney sprang up.
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