The modern parts of the book were inspired by my worldview of high school as pure, unadulterated Hell. That's the way it goes. We were alike. Beneath these prints, a cluster of hobnails, driven into the wall, formed certain letters, which, if properly deciphered, produced the words, "Paul Groves, cobler;" and under the name, traced in charcoal, appeared the following record of the poor fellow's fate, "Hung himsel in this rum for luv off licker;" accompanied by a graphic sketch of the unhappy suicide dangling from a beam. With trembling fingers she opened the post-bag. Set on unravelling her secrets, Gerald pursues every possible clue—much to the indignation of Mademoiselle.
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