Eric Vorsack still toiled at work. "I have killed her," cried Jack. "Pish!" exclaimed Hogarth. All the same, I don’t admit it. It was in the quiet streets and squares toward Oxford Street that it first came into her head disagreeably that she herself was being followed. She visited the corner that had been her own little garden—her forget-me-nots and candytuft had long since been elbowed into insignificance by weeds; she visited the raspberry-canes that had sheltered that first love affair with the little boy in velvet, and the greenhouse where she had been wont to read her secret letters. There is the election——” He laughed derisively.
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