Stanley came home at a quarter to six—an earlier train by fifteen minutes than he affected—his sister met him in the hall with a hushed expression. In Singapore that had been her only dissipation: a dozen pairs of silk stockings. Murder, I say, has been done! Another murder will be committed if you don't prevent it. Now, in her old place, she was doing her best thoroughly to enjoy a most indifferent dinner. His grey eyes burned under his shaggy eyebrows. “You were born for great things,” he said huskily. Wood's boat, impelled alike by oar and tide, shot past the mark at which it aimed; and before it could be again brought about, the struggle had terminated.
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