This gloom was impossible. ‘The fact of it is,’ I said, ‘I’m the new playwright, Thomas More. His letter of credit; probably that was it; and, observing the strangeness of the room he was in, his first concern on returning to consciousness would naturally relate to his letter of credit. Annabel, I cannot believe it. Both advanced towards it, when, by the light of the lantern, Wood beheld, in the countenance of the stranger, the well-remembered and stern features of Rowland. He looked across at Annabel, and he groaned. Long ago. It could only mean one thing—that her foster daughter was both a whore and a murderer! When Sheila confronted her about it, it was five in the morning.
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