He entered it; crossed the room, in which there was only a small truckle-bed, over which he stumbled; opened another door and gained the stair-head. They sat down, McClintock reaching for a lump of sugar which he began munching. For a few days she was fascinated by the place, exploring the moldy rooms, the weird treasures hiding in forgotten trousseaus. Wood, in a whisper, as he filled a rummer to the brim, not to forget the health of the Chevalier de Saint George—a proposition to which the lady immediately responded by drinking the toast aloud. “Even if he lives here you may go all your life and never come face to face with him again. “Do you know, I have been wondering what had become of you,” she said.
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