She washed her face with unwonted elaboration before she went to bed. She spent the morning up to ten in writing a series of unsuccessful letters to Ramage, which she tore up unfinished; and finally she desisted and put on her jacket and went out into the lamp-lit obscurity and slimy streets. Gwen—I saw Gwen the other day, and the paint’s thicker than ever. The man’s passion became almost unbearable at the thought of losing her. He swore that I was his wife, that chance had given me to him at last. You see, my riddle is solved.
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