To his relief, Mrs Sindlesham stepped into the breach, grasping her cane and rising painfully from her chair. Jack Kimble nodded eagerly. And she was as shrewd as they come. “I want to find an address. She’s a snob. I hate myself!” She collapsed to the floor, sobbing. Perhaps it was loneliness. It was a large, littered, self-forgetful apartment, decorated with unframed charcoal sketches by various incipient masters; and an open bookcase, surmounted by plaster casts and the half of a human skull, displayed an odd miscellany of books—Shaw and Swinburne, Tom Jones, Fabian Essays, Pope and Dumas, cheek by jowl.
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