"Mercy!" screamed Mrs. He was a square-faced man of nearly fifty, with iron-gray hair a mobile, cleanshaven mouth and rather protuberant black eyes that now scrutinized Ann Veronica. “I cannot but conclude,” he said, “that your errand involved the recital to my wife of some trouble in which you find yourself. You must know, Sir, when he was a lad, the day after he broke into his master's house in Wych Street, he picked a gentleman's pocket in our church, during sarvice time,—that he did, the heathen. Her eyes followed him. ” “How absurd!” Annabel declared.
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