“Annabel at last,” he shouted. Mac—the old gossip—knew about everything going on in that part of the world; and if Enschede was anything up to the picture the girl had drawn, McClintock would have heard of him, naturally. His pulses beat fast as he walked, his feet fell lightly upon the pavement. ‘But who was he, Gerald?’ ‘A damned condottiere,’ exploded Gerald, forgetting his company. He got up brusquely. Constance Widgett’s abundant copper-red hair was bent down over some dimly remunerative work—stencilling in colors upon rough, white material—at a kitchen table she had dragged up-stairs for the purpose, while on her bed there was seated a slender lady of thirty or so in a dingy green dress, whom Constance had introduced with a wave of her hand as Miss Miniver. She was not afraid exactly, but there was that about her loneliness to-night she distrusted. ’ ‘From you,’ the lady threw at him furiously. Gianfrancesco took her that night gently, for which she was glad. “She has always worked very long hours as a real estate agent.
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