They were standing face to face now upon the hearthrug. He was leaning against a window frame, his hat in his hand. From the window he saw The Tigress faring toward Copeley's! Then somebody was coming? Some political high muckamuck, probably. ’ ‘Fiddle,’ scoffed Miss Froxfield. He was reaching wearily for some kind of buffer to his harrying conscience. There were menacing possibilities; the thought of them set him a-tremble. He tried to make love to me. . Here was no crooked soul; a little weak perhaps, impulsive beyond common, but fundamentally honest. ‘Only me name,’ Kimble said apologetically. Cathy had not even noticed that she herself was wet and trailing water everywhere. Wood hadn't struck me. .
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