It was a motor accident—a fatal motor accident the evening papers called it. The telegram reminded Ann Veronica that she had no place for interviews except her bed-sitting-room, and she sought her landlady and negotiated hastily for the use of the ground floor parlor, which very fortunately was vacant. Ennison looked down on him in disgust. ‘André? Que dit-il?’ ‘My wife does not understand,’ said the fellow, frowning deeply. The constable, Sharples, is in my pay. Whence she came,—who she was,—and what she wanted,—were questions which naturally suggested themselves to Blueskin, and he was about to seek for some explanation, when his curiosity was checked by a gesture of silence from the lady.
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