“I’ve got Urquhart’s cheque,” he thought, “and by this time tomorrow⁠—‘ Mr. Malakite at Weymouth.’ ” Once more, while he used these words, what he saw in his mind was the little blue veins under Christie’s satiny skin⁠—just above her knees.

It was then⁠—and he had remarked it in himself before⁠—that the constriction of lust endowed his spirit with a recklessness that was alien to his character. “Wishaloog! Wishaloog!” whistled the wind; but mounting up, out of the chill of the nether pit, something in his nature, some savage stirring of his animal will, mocked back now at this impish derision.

“Whi⁠ ⁠… Hoo! thee own self! ” he cried aloud, mimicking the tone in which Gerda’s father used this West Country retort. Without further delay he left the pigsty, crossed the road, and rushed into his house.⁠ ⁠…