Polegate Thom” thereon; she sniffed them, but they smelled severe. “I must be tired,” she thought, “I’ll go and lie down.” Upstairs the drawing-room was darkened, waiting for some hand to give it evening light; and she passed on up to her bedroom. This, too, was half-curtained and dim, for it was six o’clock. Winifred threw off her coat⁠—that scent again!⁠—then stood, as if shot, transfixed against the bed-rail. Something dark had risen from the sofa in the far corner. A word of horror⁠—in her family⁠—escaped her: “God!”

“It’s I⁠—Monty,” said a voice.