She realized that he was the sort of man one does not think much about at dinners. From time to time the man below would shout, and the boy would let the threads go with the snap of a harpist, only to recover them instantly. "Who took it thence?" "Thames Darrell; the boy at your side. No gentleman was ever called Thames, and Darrell is a gentleman, unless the whole story of his being found in the river is a fabrication!" "My dear, you forget—" "No, Mr. ’ ‘I presume you were not with her in France?’ Kimble stared. They drove up into Paris in an open fiacre with a soft cool wind blowing in their faces, hand in hand beneath the rug. Her time and effort was justly rewarded, because the hard cold facts she knew about neighborhood intrigues were better than fictional soap operas. “I am afraid,” she said, “that he must have a skeleton key to these rooms. Then he turned to Anna.
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