CHAPTER VIII. "Married!—no—no," replied the woollen-draper. Cathy chimed. She found herself mildly entertained by staring at the houses through the rain as she walked home, all cast in a gray blurry film noir gauze of rain. A queer game this: he could not move directly as in an ordinary case of manhunt. “I thought you wanted to have a talk to me,” she said. ” “We’ve come past it, miss,” the man answered, with a note of finality in his gruff voice. She was ushered into the back of the squad car. To-night all this may seem hard and cruel. ‘You will not guess again?’ ‘No, no, I am quite out of ideas. He has had brain fever since, and, as you say, I am more like what you were then than you yourself are now.
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