She was suddenly grave. “How odd that I should almost spring into your arms just on my doorstep!” she remarked gaily. ‘My name’s NOT More, Mr. Sir John hesitated, and then continued. And then she came out into the street, sure only of one thing—that she could not return directly to her lodgings. Rushing towards the entrance of the well-hole, Blueskin touched the secret spring. It consisted of a close jerkin of brown frieze, ornamented with a triple row of brass buttons; loose Dutch slops, made very wide in the seat and very tight at the knees; red stockings with black clocks, and a fur cap. ‘What did you do with the portrait then? Not that I suppose it is much use any longer.
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