She was guided into the dock and prompted by a helpful police inspector. “It means that I have had enough of this slavery,” she declared. I must see if I have a gown fit to wear. It had been his fevered imagination that had endued the garment with some extraordinary value. But shortly this movement ceased. ‘Who kills who?’ ‘Rot in hell,’ he snarled, panting, and managed to push himself forward and leap off the dais, running for the safety of the far aisle by the wall. What was the matter with the dress? She could not see. But he was destined to have every tide of feeling awakened—every wound opened. A short flight of steps brought him to a dark passage, into which he plunged.
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