She did not have to investigate that his door was locked. "Is it by lettin' you go, my darlin', that I'm to airn it?" inquired Terence. Only a book detective could dope this out. It was a gorgeous May evening, the air redolent with the soapy purple scents of hyacinth and lilac. She held it down with the poker, looking nervously over her shoulder. Both advanced towards it, when, by the light of the lantern, Wood beheld, in the countenance of the stranger, the well-remembered and stern features of Rowland. “For I know that you love Ennison. He lives near the Black Lion. That dress! Only a man—and an unworldly one—would have permitted you to proceed on your adventure dressed in a gown thirty years out of date.
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