Sc. ' He muttered it continually. “I am developing ailments,” she said, meeting his questioning eyes. “What is the good of pretending?” she said. ’ A sudden frown sprang to the fellow’s face. Cahill gave me a hall pass. But such was the violence of his grief,—such the compunction he exhibited, that all but one looked on with an eye of compassion. Widgett was a journalist and art critic, addicted to a greenish-gray tweed suit and “art” brown ties; he smoked corncob pipes in the Avenue on Sunday morning, travelled third class to London by unusual trains, and openly despised golf. He was staring at her, openly gaping. Ho-hum! CHAPTER IX The Hong-Kong packet lay alongside the warehouse frontage. “But then they would find that check endorsed in his bureau.
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