” “Any place would be beautiful,” said Ann Veronica, in a low voice. Her faithful servant struggled, with her assistance, to rise. Her concluding paragraph was, on the whole, perhaps, hardly starchy enough. Anna was still holding her cigarette between her fingers. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. Practically all. “To Paris! But why? What do you hope to discover there?” “I do not know,” he answered, “but I am going to see David Courtlaw. “Have to go now. ’ ‘I shall stop him,’ declared the old lady furiously. “She is likely somewhere on the road or perhaps in town, finding victims.
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