“I repeat, gentlemen,” he said, in an ominously low tone, “what of it?” Drummond shrugged his shoulders. I WAS talking to him before I saw his name on the card beside the row of microscopes. I don’t want to hear you. The man who sat behind a pigeon-hole, and regulated the comings and goings, was for a moment absent. Her fancy dress, save for the green-gray stockings, the pseudo-Turkish slippers, and baggy silk trousered ends natural to a Corsair’s bride, was hidden in a large black-silk-hooded operacloak.
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