Before Wood had time to inquire into the cause of this sound, his attention was diverted by a man, who rushed past the entry with the swiftness of desperation. The bleach had ruined it, with yellow-orange streaks invading the frizzy white that cascaded in wavy tendrils coated with greasy hairspray. Returning to Mrs Sindlesham’s chair, he held up the miniature so the face depicted there was turned towards the old lady. He drew a little breath and stepped back. "I believe he's gone," he said, returning to Jonathan. “I have signed a statement that I shot myself; bad trade and drink, both true—both true. "Well, you never can tell," he continued, lamely. She wedged the towel between her legs.
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