There was a little pause between them, full for Ann Veronica of rapid elusive suspicions and intimations. ‘I suppose he isn’t this Leonardo you spoke of?’ ‘Certainly he is not Leonardo. "I fear we're too late," he whispered to Thames. I had dreamt of the olive grove beyond the courtyard I had once been fascinated 198 with as a boy. "Goodness only knows what he's reserved for," rejoined the widow in a desponding tone; "but if Mynheer Van Galgebrok, whom I met last night at the Cross Shovels, spoke the truth, little Jack will never die in his bed. There were no mourners.
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