How I wish I might meet this delightful mystery lady of yours. Brendon was silent. And behind— there was Paris, memories of amazing things, memories which made his cheeks burn and his heart beat quickly as he sat there waiting for her. And, incidentally, check on that unfortunate young fellow Kimble. He looked like the shadow of himself—thin, feeble, hollow-eyed—his beard unshorn—nothing could be more miserable. Last time— you made me feel snubbed. You’re a good friend. And a ballot-box—” Her face assumed an expression of intellectual conflict. That is why I came to London.
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