Ireton rushed forward to open the wicket for him. On reaching the churchyard, he perceived the melancholy procession descending the hill. Passing the old rectory, and still older church, with its reverend screen of trees, and slowly ascending a hill side, from whence he obtained enchanting peeps of the spire and college of Harrow, he reached the cluster of well-built houses which constitute the village of Neasdon. “What did it matter?” she cried. As to following, there was no one. His tone was rough, almost threatening. The sky was dripping a wet, slow rain that had forced the city’s inhabitants into taxicabs and dingy cafeterias, the day wholly ruined for all except the insane schizophrenics and her. “He would never have found you out if you had not personated me.
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