“I really do not believe,” he announced with satisfaction, “that any one would recognize me. The eyes left him, searching beside the chair for her cane. Constance Widgett’s abundant copper-red hair was bent down over some dimly remunerative work—stencilling in colors upon rough, white material—at a kitchen table she had dragged up-stairs for the purpose, while on her bed there was seated a slender lady of thirty or so in a dingy green dress, whom Constance had introduced with a wave of her hand as Miss Miniver. So get up, and let's be off. ‘And why have you not arrested him? Do not tell me you have allowed him to escape you. ” “Let us say that Café Maston, in the Boulevard des Italiennes, at half-past seven then,” he decided. He drew a little sigh of relief.
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