Then she stepped back into the empty room and stood for a moment looking down upon the scattered fragments of her last canvas. Her husband had caught her leaning over a precipice into the ruins of the oubliette, and had punished her by flogging her back with a switch. “You see you do not know how much of truth there is in his story. You, sir,” he added, turning to Brendon, “had better take my card round to the police station in Werner Street and ask that Detective Dorling be sent round here at once on urgent business. "Are you my son? Are you Jack?" "I am," replied Jack. It came into her head with real emotional force that this must be some particularly fantastic sort of dream. ‘And so you sneak back,’ she threw at him, ‘like the jackal that you are. ” The man nodded.
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