But when she was thinking it over in her room that evening vague and baffling doubts came drifting across this conviction. That for the men lay near the Lodge, with which it was connected by a dark passage. To her mind, recalling the picture of him the night before, there had been something tragic in the grim silent manner of his tippling. Her hands wove through his black hair, luxuriating in its thickness. Bribble’s rendering of the service —he had the sort of voice that brings out things—and was still teeming with ideas about it when finally a wild outburst from the organ made it clear that, whatever snivelling there might be down in the chancel, that excellent wind instrument was, in its Mendelssohnian way, as glad as ever it could be. “Lady Mackinnor,” she said, “I am sure that you must have heard of Mr.
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