It was a large, littered, self-forgetful apartment, decorated with unframed charcoal sketches by various incipient masters; and an open bookcase, surmounted by plaster casts and the half of a human skull, displayed an odd miscellany of books—Shaw and Swinburne, Tom Jones, Fabian Essays, Pope and Dumas, cheek by jowl. “I’ve fallen in love. He showed me a black mark under his ear, where the noose would be tied. But he could only discern a black and shapeless mass, floating upon the water at a little distance, which, to his bewildered fancy, appeared absolutely standing still. Wood, then, beheld two persons, one of whom he recognised as Rowland, spring on board the chase. I thought—the papers said——” “You thought that I was dead,” he interrupted.
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