VIII looked again at the composite picture of Molly Brent that Marjorie had left for me to show Colonel Primrose when he came. The flagpole that separated the two halves of the two different pictures actually tied them together, and made them look one and the same scene of rain-drenched horror for the unhappy child running for the car that moments later was a tangled wreck, with her a broken heap under the raincoat beside the road. I put my hand over the tavern side of it. The change was appalling. The tragedy implicit in the tortured little figure fleeing wildly through the rain, having just been cruelly told that both her brothers had been killed, running wildly out to get to her parents before the same cruelty was inflicted on them, was sickening. It was a wicked thing, the use of human
