“You are my friend,” she said, “if any one is. And I think also that Gosse—I mean that one who calls himself Valade—stole it. From time to time the man below would shout, and the boy would let the threads go with the snap of a harpist, only to recover them instantly. “I wish you and I had drunk that love potion,” he said. ‘Now I see that you are mad indeed. Finally she decided upon a step that had always seemed reasonable to her, but that hitherto she had, from motives too faint for her to formulate, refrained from taking. “But I—I went to Nigel Ennison for help.
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