CHAPTER XIIIA
TAXICAB took him in dreary rain through the squalor of Tyneside, now following the dismal tram lines, now cutting through mean streets, until they reached a row of low, bow-windows agglutinated little villas with handkerchief of garden separating them from the road. At No. 17 he dismissed the cab and swung wide the flimsy gate. Before he could enter, the house door opened and a woman appeared, worn and elderly, in a cheap, soiled wrapper.
“I suppose that’s you, John. I shouldn’t have recognized you.”
She spoke with a harsh, northern accent, and her face betrayed little emotion.
“You’re Ellen,” said he.
“Aye. I’m Ellen. You didn’t think I was Jane?”
She led the way into a narrow passage and then into the diminutive parlour.
“Of course not,” said he. “Jane died three yea
