“Tell me,” asked Joan, “am I likely to meet with much of that sort of thing?” “How are you?” she added, holding out her hand. “You’ve grown quite good-looking. I like your moustache.” And he flushed again with pleasure.!

They neither spoke during the short walk between the two hotels. But at the door she turned and held out her hands to him. “I hope nobody saw me,” he said with a laugh. “But I couldn’t bear to leave her there, unhonoured.”

What was plucking at her sleeve—still holding her? Flossie interrupted. “How about being quite frank?” she suggested. “Suppose we do love one another. How about putting it that way?” A short, dark, thick-set man entered and stood looking round the room. The frame must once have been powerful, but now it was shrunken and emaciated. The shabby, threadbare clothes hung loosely from the stooping shoulders. Only the head seemed to have retained its vigour. The face, from which the long black hair was brushed straight back, was ghastly white. Out of it, deep set beneath great shaggy, overhanging brows, blazed the fierce, restless eyes of a fanatic. The huge, thin-lipped mouth seemed to have petrified itself into a savage snarl. He gave Joan the idea, as he stood there glaring round him, of a hunted beast at bay.