‘What else was there to do? He paid off the servants and left old Pottiswick in charge, saying that the place would have to remain empty until the heir was found. He had studied alchemy and astronomy, was a capable painter, and even wrote music. H’m. Love and lavender, he thought, perhaps wistfully. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. At the corner of Liquorpond Street stood the old Hampstead coach-office; and, on the night in question, a knot of hostlers, waggoners, drivers, and stable-boys was collected in the yard. He sat on the bed, throwing aside his hat. ’ ‘Don’t you believe it. My wife—killed me. Then she turned, and entering the inner room, commenced to dress hastily for the street.
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