She mounted the stairs of the theatrical agent’s office with very much less than her usual buoyancy, nor did she find much encouragement in the general appearance of the room into which she was shown. ‘Oh, my God, she’s gone!’ Wrenching his hand from his friend’s slackened grasp, he darted for the door, Roding behind him. ‘You’ve found her out?’ ‘Tell us at once,’ urged Miss Froxfield. How old are you?’ ‘I have nineteen years, and it is quite unimportant. She tore open the envelope and read it. Sheppard, passing her hand across her brow; "but my memory is gone—quite gone.
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