Anna was more difficult. Ascending the stairs, and conducting them along a sombre gallery, in which Trenchard noticed that every door was painted black, and numbered, he stopped at the entrance of a chamber; and, selecting a key from the bunch at his girdle, unlocked it. Every eye seemed focussed upon her; and yet she had known the sensation to be the conceit of her imagination. Even Capes had been for her merely an excitant to passionate love—a mere idol at whose feet one could enjoy imaginative wallowings. ” The detective turned again to Anna. “My dear boy,” she exclaimed. “You’re so cute. He was in trouble and she could not help him; that was the ache in her heart. "And so I want the boy out of the way," he concluded.
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