You must forgive the poet’s license I take. Nine years ago, I worked in this very house—had a kind indulgent master, whom I robbed—twice robbed, at your instigation, villain; a mistress, whom you have murdered; a companion, whose friendship I have for ever forfeited; a mother, whose heart I have well-nigh broken. No doubt that was due to his helplessness. What he needed most in this hour was a bottle of American rye-whisky and a friendly American bar-keep to talk to. Lucy entered the house by picking the back door lock with the slim jim. "Do not despair, my sweet soul," said Wood, in a soothing tone. "Don't mention it," returned Wood, in the conciliatory tone of one who admits he has been in the wrong; "your explanation is perfectly satisfactory. ‘How do you do, my lord? I am Lucilla Froxfield.
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