It was a motor accident—a fatal motor accident the evening papers called it. There it is—against you. “If you must go on with it,” said Hetty, “now’s your time. Her pulses began to race. On the groundfloor the shutters were closed, or, to speak more correctly, altogether nailed up, and presented a very singular appearance, being patched all over with the soles of old shoes, rusty hobnails, and bits of iron hoops, the ingenious device of the former occupant of the apartment, Paul Groves, the cobbler, to whom we have before alluded.
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