The dusky obscurity of the room was twice welcome. Mr. “MY DEAR MISS STANLEY,” it began,—“I hope you will forgive my bothering you with a letter, but I have been thinking very much over our conversation at Lady Palsworthy’s, and I feel there are things I want to say to you so much that I cannot wait until we meet again. Spurlock had better stick to the bungalow. It belonged to his father, and was worn by him on the night he was murdered. Then she spoke, with a carelessness he instantly suspected. Another picture slid across her vision. Jack, whose clothes were covered with dust, and whose face was deathly pale from his recent exertion, looked more like a phantom than a living person. For a few minutes, she appeared scarcely sensible of his presence. Ann Veronica glanced at the mirror to discover a flushed and dishevelled disorder. “It is true,” he said, “that I was dining last night at a restaurant in the Boulevard des Italiennes, and it is true that my companion was a young lady whose name is Pellissier.
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