But I don’t want to. 47 was no more than a sort of railway compartment on the way to that. Her aunt was blandly amiable above a certain tremulous undertow, and talked as if to a caller about the alarming spread of marigolds that summer at the end of the garden, a sort of Yellow Peril to all the smaller hardy annuals, while her father brought some papers to table and presented himself as preoccupied with them. Sir John and Annabel seated themselves at one of them, and the proprietor himself, a small dark-visaged man, radiant with smiles, came hurrying up, followed by a waiter. She was the actress his whim had chosen to play a passive part. It was the grand nursery of vice. "Get it over quickly," said Trenchard, in a whisper to the thief-taker. "No such thing," rejoined Thames. ’ ‘Had the advantage of her this time,’ Roding put in before Gerald could respond.
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