She sat there, a mark for boulevarders, the unconscious object of numberless wondering glances. "Stolen by a gipsy when scarcely five years old, Constance Trenchard, after various vicissitudes, was carried to London, where she lived in great poverty, with the dregs of society. The day is already half over. She dismissed the idea of doing so. He had come to Anna’s rooms from a dinner party, and he was in evening dress. Your glove will suffice. Giving him a wide berth, and keeping her pistol high, she made her way to the door and warily peered through it.
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