I dare not reflect upon the effect that her son's fate,—if the efforts to save him are ineffectual,—may have upon her enfeebled frame, and still worse upon her mind. She entered the last room, his bedroom. I don’t care. ‘No! Let me alone!’ ‘It is not safe!’ ‘That is entirely my affair, and not your affair in the least,’ she told him haughtily. It was Ramage, the occupant of the big house at the end of the Avenue. I know something about men. Either it was an unfortunate recovery of a trail, or he had followed her from Mayfair. In the adjacent apartment Ann Veronica found a middle-aged woman with a tired face under the tired hat she wore, sitting at a desk opening letters while a dusky, untidy girl of eight-or nine-and-twenty hammered industriously at a typewriter. “Stay where you are for a moment,” she directed.
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