And I’ve read, and thought, and guessed, and looked—until MY innocence—it’s smirched. “What have you done?” 212 “It is your own fault, Lucia. His face fell. The figure she had longed to see came into her line of vision, but at this crucial moment of hideous realisation, Melusine barely took it in, her eyes fixing blankly on the man behind. There's nothing on the card to indicate it, but I'm a detective. Then he put the paper by. gutenberg. The first time, I overlooked the offence; but the second time, when I had planned to break open the house of his master, the fellow who visited you to-night,—Wood, the carpenter of Wych Street,—he betrayed me. I thought that you were he.
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