"Good-b'ye, Jack," said Figg, putting on his hat. He was out of breath, and spoke in broken sentences. They are things faint and slight in themselves, as physical facts, but they are like the detonator of a bomb: they let loose the explosive. At any rate, it would be good to hear him saying the sort of things he did—perhaps now she would grasp them better—with this world-shaking secret brandishing itself about inside her head within a yard of him. All she needed to do was to have a body. There are also the letters which were scattered about Wild's room after the murder of Sir Rowland. " "We may believe as much of that as we please, I suppose," observed the carpenter's wife, with a sneer.
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