“Quite right,” she said. It was a motor accident—a fatal motor accident the evening papers called it. " "Mr. “You no longer belong to Gianfrancesco. It isn't as if he were stricken with typhoid or pneumonia or something like that. “See you to-night, I suppose?” He sauntered off. I made it a point to bring beachcombers to the house to fill her with horror of mankind. I know less about this affair perhaps than you suppose. . She was curious to know why he had boarded a dingy train instead of hailing a cab or his own private chauffeur like the others in expensive suits were doing. I am really in earnest. “Did you see who that was?” he asked in a low tone. He started a dozen stories, but they all ended in the waste-basket.
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