And this time he was armed. '"WOMAN WAILING FOR HER DEMON LOVER"--' he quoted--'why, I don't know. To that effect. Her face was gray, and drops of perspiration were strung like bright beads across her forehead. Say it was money, or plate, or jewellery, it would be as much ours as anybody else's. As if he were of the Mephistopheles family indeed, and had walked with a drooping tail.

' 'Waiting?' says Eugene over his shoulder, in confidence, with the Analytical. 'We never meet now,' said Fledgeby; 'do we?' 'No,' said Miss Wren, chopping off the word. And now you've talked to the good doctor. Exactly so. And his lights had been those of the great religion. Best leave it all to the vast, creative, non-human mystery.

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