The picturesque scoundrel had the true gift; and Spurlock was filled with pity at the thought of such genius gone to pot. There was nothing of the phenomenon in this. At the bottom of the trunk was a large manila envelope, unmarked. ‘Gabbling and muttering in a foreign tongue, that’s what I heard, sir,’ had declared the gap-toothed ancient, when he told them of the initial foray he had made, sneaking around the house in the dark. “Oh, there’s no doubt of it! Since the girls of the eighties broke bounds and sailed away on bicycles—my young days go back to the very beginnings of that —it’s been one triumphant relaxation. The real tragedy—which he sensed and toward which he was always reaching—eluded all his verbal skill.
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