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If she had once known him, if he were some former neighbour, it would be comprehensible. His hand shook so violently that he dropped the handkerchief; and he let it lie on the floor because he dared not stoop. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. "Jack," continued Thames, addressing Sheppard, who had only just recovered from the blow, and regained his feet, "I don't ask how you came here, nor do I blame your rashness in doing so. Lucy followed. I'll not speak of Jack or Jonathan. He would sit in his inner office and compose conversations with her, penetrating, illuminating, and nearly conclusive—conversations that never proved to be of the slightest use at all with her when he met her face to face.
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