“It was just an hour before teatime,” she remarked. The open windows were above them now and, unless the intruder were to lean out, they could not possibly be seen. “Annabel,” she said, “I have never asked you for your confidence. It took all my self control not to let my hands wander. Here he halted; and, looking upwards, read, at the foot of an immense sign-board, displaying a gaudily-painted angel with expanded pinions and an olive-branch, not the name he expected to find, but that of WILLIAM KNEEBONE, WOOLLENDRAPER. For now, I fear there is something worse, something more present. ” She drove off in a little fiacre, nodding and smiling at Sir John, who remained upon the Avenue.
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