byAll day the March wind had been muttering and growling like a peevish giant with a toothache. As darkness fell it began to raise its voice; by nine o’clock it was shrieking and screaming like a billion banshees suffering with cholera morbus. I huddled over the coke fire burning in my study grate and tried to concentrate on my book, to forget the wailing of the wind and the misfortunes of the day, but made very poor work of it.
cholera morbusMingling with the wind’s skirling there suddenly sounded the raucous bellow of an automobile siren, followed, a moment later, by a hammering and clattering at the front door as if whoever stood outside would beat the panels in by main force.
“If ye plaze, sor,” Nora, my maid of all work, announced, poking her nose around the half-opened study door,
