“Come right in,” he hissed under his breath, with the true conspirator’s note, closed the door very softly and pointed, “Through there!” By the meagre light of a gas lamp she perceived a cobbled yard with four large furniture vans standing with horses and lamps alight. Spurlock began to munch his water-chestnuts. After all, what did it matter?—it or anything else in the world? She was within reach of his arms, beautiful, compelling, herself as it seemed suddenly conscious of the light which was burning in his eyes. Then she stepped back into the empty room and stood for a moment looking down upon the scattered fragments of her last canvas. ‘Soi-disant? Then he is not Valade?’ ‘How can I know?’ she countered crossly. He saw three people: a young man at the piano, an elderly man smoking in a corner, and a young woman reclining in a chair, her eyes closed. “And, after all, I am just one common person!” She watched the throb of the arteries in the stem of her neck, and put her hand at last gently and almost timidly to where her heart beat beneath her breast. Impressed with this idea, he paused for a moment to listen. His face was half hidden under a freshly pipeclayed sola topee—sun-helmet.
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