" "He'll scarcely need a plaister," replied Mrs. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. Certainly, there wasn't a thing in the pockets. Brendon looked across the room at her thoughtfully. Arrived at Westbourne-Green—then nothing more than a common covered with gorse and furzebushes, and boasting only a couple of cottages and an alehouse—he perceived through the hedges the objects of his search slowly ascending the gentle hill that rises from KensallGreen. ’ ‘That’s just it,’ said Joan Ibstock shamefacedly. .
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