At luncheon, on the third day, a thick-set man with a blue jaw smiled across his table at her. Her linen gown was soft against the heavy skins. Her head was downcast as she studied the museum-like exhibits of various dusts on the resilient tile flooring. More importantly, she had her wits. Any one very badly moved choked down a few mouthfuls; the symptom of supreme distress was not to be able to touch a bit. The detective backed out slowly and closed the door without sound. On the other a wretched engraving of the Chevalier de Saint George, or, as he was styled in the label attached to the portrait, James the Third, raised a suspicion that the inmate of the house was not altogether free from some tincture of Jacobitism. Her heart in her mouth, hoping against hope, Melusine made her way back to where she had left the boy. " "Not quite," rejoined the thief-taker, significantly. " She departed reluctantly. She put a stool for him at a little distance from her own, and after he had seen the day’s work he hesitated, and then plunged into a resumption of their discussion about beauty. So the talk went on, and presently they were criticising novelists, and certain daring essays of Wilkins got their due share of attention, and then they were discussing the future of the theatre. That is quite as far as I mean to tempt Providence to-night.
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