“I thought every one had heard,” said Miss Klegg. "May I ask whether you made any further inquiries into the mysterious affair about which we were speaking just now?" observed Jackson, turning to the carpenter. There were neither texts nor rubbish on the walls, but only a stirring version of Belshazzar’s feast, a steel engraving in the early Victorian manner that had some satisfactory blacks. Do not believe it, Madam. Why? Because Howard Spurlock the author dared not risk the liberty of Howard Spurlock the malefactor; because there were still some dregs in this cup of irony. And put ‘em in little books for remembrance. And it's uncanny. Yes. But never would any so dishonour himself as to hand a fellow rogue over to the authorities. ‘She’s wearing a lightskirt’s clothing?’ ‘Nothing obviously so, I assure you.
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