"Do you know what you make me think of?" "What?" "As if you had stepped out of some old family album. “Since last night. I shall never go back to him; never, never!" Distressed, embarrassed beyond measure by this unexpected tragic revelation, the doctor puttered about among the bottles on the stand. A glance down the passage—to see that Roding was not lurking?—and her face came back to Gerald, triumph in her eyes. Nevertheless it was overwhelming. 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.
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