Fortescue rambled round the garden with soft, propitiatory steps, the Corinthian nose upraised and his hands behind his back, pausing to look long and hard at the fruit-trees against the wall. The panel in the bookcase. We shall see. Perhaps some one had kissed the brow that was now so cadaverous, rubbed that sunken cheek with loving fingers, held that stringy neck with passionately living hands. In the floor were set four ring-bolts, about nine feet apart. “Anna,” she moaned, “I am a jealous, ungrateful woman. . . She shuddered; the room was unfamiliar and unwelcoming. She took her hat from the peg in the corner and began to put it on.
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