She was dressed in a tattered black stuff gown, discoloured by various stains, and intended, it would seem, from the remnants of rusty crape with which it was here and there tricked out, to represent the garb of widowhood, and held in her arms a sleeping infant, swathed in the folds of a linsey-woolsey shawl. ‘I’ll get the key,’ said Roding, turning abruptly. Then he could hear Hilary breathing beside him, and from outside the muted twittering of birds. . In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. " "I'm no reader of riddles," said Jonathan.
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