“Fred,” he said, “do you remember taking me to dinner at the ‘Ambassador’s,’ one evening last September, to meet a girl who was singing there? Hamilton and Drummond and his lot were with us. "One of us has got to die," he panted. Wild will hang me. Mr. ‘Don’t want it to break out bleeding again. There was the cottage she had inhabited for so many years,—in those fields she had rambled,—at that church she had prayed. The air was sweet with the perfume of flowers, and the melody of murmuring insects, the blue sky was cloudless, the heat of the sun was tempered by the heather-scented west wind. ‘Aye, that she was. ” “Let us say that Café Maston, in the Boulevard des Italiennes, at half-past seven then,” he decided. And, by way of checking his housekeeper's familiarity, he pointed significantly to the table. Making up a similar story to that which he had told the old woman, he said he wanted to purchase a hammer and a file. I wish I could get you to imitate Thames Darrell.
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