‘They’ve gone, miss,’ came the answer, muffled through the panel door. That bruise will answer the same purpose. "What was it?" He was insistent. Kneebone in a conciliatory tone. She had decided that she would spend the next morning answering advertisements in the papers that abounded in the writing-room; and so, after half an hour’s perusal of back numbers of the Sketch in the drawingroom, she had gone to bed. All the world about her seemed to be—how can one put it?—in wrappers, like a house when people leave it in the summer. 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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