"Sir Rowland is murdered!" cried Jack, as soon as he could find a tongue. Why may I not be your friend? Somehow or other I feel that you have been driven into a false position. That’s— that’s my private life. We were to live in some wretched London suburb. It was no use. Have I your final answer?" "You have, Sir Rowland," she answered, in a feeble tone, but firmly. "Will you write," asked the doctor, "and tell me how you are getting along?" "Oh, yes!" "The last advice I can give you is this: excite his imagination; get him started with his writing.
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