"'The Man Who Could Not Go Home. ‘Ain’t no call for you to go a-blaming of yourself. Away up on the hillside was the little country railway station. " "Shall I tell you a real story?" "Something you have seen?" "Yes. "What are you waiting for?" asked Jack, impatiently. " "I will—I will," replied Wood hastily. He chuckled. You are my prisoner, murderer. " In stepping across the room, some sharp point in the floor pierced his foot, and stooping to examine it, he found that the wound had been inflicted by a long rusty nail, which projected from the boards.
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