“Fred,” he said, “do you remember taking me to dinner at the ‘Ambassador’s,’ one evening last September, to meet a girl who was singing there? Hamilton and Drummond and his lot were with us. It now came to him with an added thrill how well she had told her story; simply and directly, no skipping, no wandering hither and yon: from the first hour she could remember, to the night she had fled in the proa, a clear sustained narrative. After several vain attempts to burst it open, he resolved, as a last alternative, to break through the wall in the part nearest to the lock. It might prove rewarding. An Englishwoman. "Well, Sir?" gasped Sir Rowland.
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