Widgett was a journalist and art critic, addicted to a greenish-gray tweed suit and “art” brown ties; he smoked corncob pipes in the Avenue on Sunday morning, travelled third class to London by unusual trains, and openly despised golf. Then he turned round and gazed thoughtfully at the particular spot in the fog where Courtlaw had disappeared. When she got back to her questions again in the monotonous high-road that led up the hill, she found the image of Mr. ‘Of course. When about to retire to rest, the rencounter with Jack Sheppard again recurred to him, and he half blamed himself for not acquainting Mr.
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