" "The boy's not at my house," replied Wild. Will you take it in to him?” The young man smiled in a superior manner. It was of no use, she let him do it as she could not be strangled. Afterwards we started for a motor ride to a place outside Paris for déjeuner, and I suppose the man’s nerve failed him. “I am tired,” she said, “and I want to rest. These petals! I’ve been wanting to cry all the evening, cry here on your shoulder for my petals. ” “Well, why not?” Lady Lescelles asked, smiling. “Who tied this scarf here?” he asked, looking up. He had got here at speed by that means. He was wrapped in a laced roquelaure, which he threw off on his entrance into the room. Was this the result of some strange experiment? It was the person of Annabel Pellissier—the soul of a very different order of being.
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