All the rest is
embroidery." How well the old man could put things! Temperance. . . .
His cousin, from what he could guess of her character, agreed with that
description. Mr. Heard would have maintained against the whole world
that a woman, a true woman like this, could do no wrong.
And now he gathered that she was in trouble of some kind. Then why not
allow him to help? He had asked for an early reply to his note. Well,
perhaps it would arrive by the evening post.
Slightly vexed none the less, he laid down the stump of his cigarette,
preparatory to retiring for the hot hours of the day. One owes
something to oneself, N'EST-CE PAS? At that moment there was a knock at
his door.
Denis entered. His face, shaded under a broad-brimmed hat, was ruddy
with the heat. He wore light flannels, and was carrying his jacket on
his arm. There was a large parcel in his hand. He looked the picture of
health.
Mr. Heard, on rising, gave him a critical glance. He remembered his
trip in the boat, and the suicide's rock--that black, ominous cliff; he
remembered the thoughts which had passed through his mind at the time.
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