She wore a plain black dress, reaching almost to her throat—her small oval face, with the large brown eyes, was colourless, delicately expressive, yet with something mysterious in its Sphinx-like immobility. Her arms and feet were uncovered, and of almost skeleton thinness. The spy—if there was one hiding out in the late Jarvis Remenham’s empty house—would be taken unawares. He had died before they married, and when her brother became a widower she had come to his assistance and taken over much of the care of his youngest daughter. A young man was playing the banjo. Her eyes were insane with rage, crusted with yellow and green, only beginning to heal from her long sojourn underground. “So she must have had you fairly young, right?” Lucy nodded again. “I will take my chance. It was among artistic people. I received a telegram, as you know, during dinner. ” Annabel rose slowly to her feet, walked to the door as though to see that it was shut, and came back with slow lagging footsteps. We shall take an eternal farewell of each other. “Just remember, I have to make this up to you. Go up and get my daughter so we can have some homemade pie. Presently she became aware of footsteps hurrying after her, and glanced back to find Miss Klegg, a little out of breath, in pursuit.
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