Luke Sparrow buried his face in his hands.
“Good God,” he muttered; “let me keep my reason.”
Midnight sounded slowly from a distant belfry.
The old clock in the corner whirred its warning, and struck the hour.
Lady Tintagel took up her jewel-case.
“Come and sit here beside me, and see why Thomas could not fail to know you.”
He rose. His knees shook. He felt queer and dizzy. It had been a long time of mental strain.
Lady Tintagel turned on a light behind her, and moved the despatch-box.
He took his seat beside her on the couch.
A packet of faded photographs were in her hand.