Again he played for her; and again the eruption of the strange senses that lay hidden in her soul. THIS, this glissade, would be damned scoundrelism. He waited. CHAPTER II. "But you mustn't indulge these gloomy thoughts. "What shall we do, Poll?" hesitated Edgeworth Bess. Depend upon it, there is a place for you—waiting. A sacrifice. His car, a black Alfa Romeo, waited at the end of the subdivision. He had conveyed it to her, not verbally, but by means of a letter, which seemed to her a singularly ignoble method of prohibition.
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