C. Wood. “You will be so good as to leave us your correct name and address, mademoiselle,” he said curtly. The cold air gave her gooseflesh under her red brocade dress as she slipped outside. There was no one stirring in the flats. She came in while he was still in the throes, conviction battling with commonsense, his own apprehension. She lunched at a creamery in Great Portland Street, and as the day was full of wintry sunshine, spent the rest of the lunch-hour in a drowsy gloom, which she imagined to be thought upon the problems of her position, on a seat in Regent’s Park. ’ ‘Oh, that tragic pair,’ uttered her ladyship in saddened tones.
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