Mr. “I didn’t understand, Vee. It was a bogus affair altogether, kept by some blackguard or other of an Englishman. Earles himself stood upon the threshold of his sanctum, the prototype of the smart natty Jew, with black hair, waxed moustache, and a wired flower in his button-hole. Sir Montacute had three children—two daughters and yourself. It was the end, she told herself, fiercely. It was surely odd that her thought should pick up that picture and recast it so vividly. But supposing he is? Supposing he made but one misstep? Your island would be a haven of security. “I’ll buy a new one.
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