“I came to London,” said Ann Veronica, “rather because of my own difficulty. ‘Kill him? Oh. You do not understand, and you would like to. She shuddered; the room was unfamiliar and unwelcoming. “I heard the other day that she’d been taken in by some cad of a fellow who was cutting a great dash in Paris, personating Meysey Hill, the great railway man. The warm September sun fell strongly on this part of the grounds, uninterrupted by trees, its light bouncing off the glass in the mansion’s walls. “You will write to me, I am sure—and from the date of your letter I trust most earnestly that I may come back to my old place as “Your devoted friend, “WALTER BRENDON. That was life.
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