Upstairs, in the little dressing-room, the panel was opened by means of tugging a small candlesconce in the wall. “On or about the day you receive this letter, Anna, the six months will be up. Somebody ought to talk to him, warn him. “It—it—must come,” she faltered. Slowly a mirthless and very unpleasant smile dawned upon his face. I say, I'll take the yarn over and read it to McClintock. The man looked as though he would have liked to deny it, but could not. Certainly I never met him. The sunshine was brilliant, the air mild. “DON’T!” she said, and wrenched her wrist from his retaining hand. He was disquieted.
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