” He bent and kissed her hair and paused, and then forced his attention back to the map. “A bad thing for me when that legacy came. The atmosphere seemed heavy with the odour of drugs. What news. ” Miss Miniver’s manner became impressive. What he needed most in this hour was a bottle of American rye-whisky and a friendly American bar-keep to talk to. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure. She’s got a great imagination. This whole affair is truly my fault. The little grating in the door, the sense of constant inspection, worried her. She, having all the confidence in the world, ripped off an end and drew out the contents—a letter and a check. In after years, some pitying hand supplied the inscription, which ran thus— JACK SHEPPARD THE END.
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