’ ‘That’s just it,’ said Joan Ibstock shamefacedly. “It’s no sort of good, Ann Veronica, pretending one does believe when one doesn’t. Don’t ask me how. Beneath these prints, a cluster of hobnails, driven into the wall, formed certain letters, which, if properly deciphered, produced the words, "Paul Groves, cobler;" and under the name, traced in charcoal, appeared the following record of the poor fellow's fate, "Hung himsel in this rum for luv off licker;" accompanied by a graphic sketch of the unhappy suicide dangling from a beam. All they left it was the moon and stars.
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