“I don’t understand. At this moment, a door was opened below; lights gleamed on the walls; and the figures of Rowland and Sir Cecil were distinguished at the foot of the stairs. "'Odd's-my-life! what's this?" exclaimed the carpenter, looking at the superscription of one of them. An unwelcome idea came to him. “We were good friends in Paris, weren’t we? You made me all sorts of promises, we planned no end of nice things, and then—without a word to any one you disappeared. My Mom’s stomach has a lot of bad scars that make it look all ropy and weird. I must apologize, I suppose, for speaking to you, but your appearance certainly indicated that you were in some sort of trouble, and you were becoming—pardon me—an object of comment to the passers-by. And I want him out of uniform. His example was followed by Darrell.
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