If He is come;
And the angel answers sweetly
In my home:
‘Only a few more shadows,
And He will come.’”
The face of Tom Hammond, as he laid down the book, was full of a strange, new perplexity. “Strange, very!” he muttered. “Do you know Joyce, Mr. Simpson?” Hammond asked a reporter. “He used to be on the staff of the——”
“‘Daily Tatler,’” cried the man. “Knew him well years ago, sir. Old school-fellows, in fact. Got wrong with the drink, sir. Gone to the dogs, and——”
“Have you seen or heard anything of him this last month, Mr. Simpson?”
“Yes, sir. He’s grown worse than ever. Magistrate at Bow Street, committing him for three days, said fellow ought to be put in Broadmoor. Pity his poor wife, sir. Perfect lady, sir.”
“You know Mrs. Joyce, then?” Hammond queried.