" He bent his head to his knees. The day was unseasonably humid and dark, a thick fog having descended over manicured lawns. “I am glad,” she told herself, “I came. Lucy spoke once they had turned the corner. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. ‘This is a private house,’ Hilary said severely, ‘and you are trespassing. Proof? There is someone who might be willing to help. I know less about this affair perhaps than you suppose. Dim souls flitted about her, not only speaking but it would seem even thinking in undertones.
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