She went to the table under the end window at which she had been accustomed to work, and found it swept and garnished with full bottles of re-agents. It was a motor accident—a fatal motor accident the evening papers called it. In Paddington. Of course, why not? She would be honest, anyhow! She turned her eyes to Manning. Over the mantel, set into an ornately carved panel with fluted columns at each end, was a portrait of a man on horseback. “Look at our clothes,” she exclaimed, “and besides, the funny little proprietor has gone down himself to help it along. As if it were she, and not Melusine, who had been hurt by the imposters.
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