But what the deuce! He was human; he was a machine only when on the hunt. “It’s the stir of spring,” he said. They tracked the fugitive to the Mint; but, like hounds at fault, they here lost all scent of their prey. The worthy carpenter was restored to instant good humour by a glance from his helpmate; and, notwithstanding the infliction he had just endured, he would have quarrelled with any one who had endeavoured to persuade him that he was not the happiest of men, and Mrs. Sheppard, faintly. He wants you—or he doesn’t; and then he helps some other woman against you.
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