” “In Paris, I think,” Ennison answered. She tucked her stick under her arm and re-read Manning’s letter. She bought her Greyhound ticket one steamy afternoon when school let out at eleven thirty A. "Leave the room," interposed Kneebone, angrily. The person, shortly afterwards ushered into the room, seemed by the imperfect light,—for the evening was advancing, and the chamber darkened by heavy drapery,—to be a middle-sized middle-aged man, of rather vulgar appearance, but with a very shrewd aspect. I am dreadfully sad. We have that gift.
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