‘But who was he, Gerald?’ ‘A damned condottiere,’ exploded Gerald, forgetting his company. She had money of her own—much more than I have—and there was no need to squabble about that. His age was not far from fifty. When they were home, the pair headed for the Big Apple or the warmth of the Beck’s family table. Under his arm he carried a thick, knotted crab-stick. Light the lantern. “Call me Annabel. Perhaps she might never come back to that breakfast-room again. Be so good as to let me pass, sir,” she added, looking her obstructor steadily in the face. It was Sunday evening—a soft delicious evening, and, from the happy, cheerful look of the house, none would have dreamed of the dismal tragedy so lately acted within its walls.
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