This way, Sir Rowland. “I believe that you are right,” he said softly. She opened her suitcase—new and smelling strongly of leather—and took out of it a book, dogeared and precariously held together, bound in faded blue cloth and bearing the inscription: The Universal Handbook. There were so many things about her which he could not understand. It would not burden him with any obligation. He beamed a little as she disappeared into the orchestra room, a cacophony of tuning instruments. He was roused from the stupor of despair into which he had sunk by the voice of Ben, who roared in his ear, "The bridge!—the bridge!" CHAPTER VII. Her white shirt was mired with a central bloodstain, his pants caked with mud.
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