Someone, it appeared, was trying to profit from that fact. He meditated, and began a new paragraph. She shook her head. The solemn strokes were immediately answered by a multitude of chimes, sounding across the Thames, amongst which the deep note of Saint Paul's was plainly distinguishable. “You remember the man in Paris who used to follow me about—Meysey Hill they called him?” He nodded. “What a fool I am!” he muttered, standing up on the hearthrug, and leaning his elbows upon the broad mantelpiece. ‘Get you invited to a party where the French émigrés will be present? Nothing easier, dear boy. F.
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