The telegram reminded Ann Veronica that she had no place for interviews except her bed-sitting-room, and she sought her landlady and negotiated hastily for the use of the ground floor parlor, which very fortunately was vacant. The sun was setting, casting long dreary shadows across deformed apple trees. If ever she felt fatigue in these long tramps which had already taken her half over London, she never admitted it. Darrell stood erect in the bark, with his drawn sword in hand, prepared to repel the attack of his assailants, who, in their turn, seemed to await with impatience the moment which should deliver him into their power. “Odd little room,” said Ann Veronica, dimly apprehending that obtrusive sofa. “To the young man himself,” he answered, “no! I simply object to his calling here two or three times a week during my absence. —I'll soon find you out. “You are a miracle! God spares few from the Pestilence.
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