“It is a secret mission,” she declared. '—'Pretty well,' says I; 'you're not badly off at the Friars, for that matter. “Does he ever ask about me?” She asked, feeling like a cuckolded old maid. The third item she took with a trembling hand by its waistbelt. Bring the light this way—quick! I cannot decipher the signature. Then Gosse spoke again, answering the question in her mind. Her aunt was blandly amiable above a certain tremulous undertow, and talked as if to a caller about the alarming spread of marigolds that summer at the end of the garden, a sort of Yellow Peril to all the smaller hardy annuals, while her father brought some papers to table and presented himself as preoccupied with them. " "Who are you?" ejaculated Trenchard, scarcely able to credit his senses. It had been a trying day.
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