He ushered them with an amiable flat hand into a minute apartment with a little gas-stove, a silk crimson-covered sofa, and a bright little table, gay with napery and hot-house flowers. Our ideal had fallen. “I don’t see, Mollie,” he remarked, taking a cigar from the box on the table as his sister and daughter rose, “why you and Vee shouldn’t discuss this little affair —whatever it is—without bothering me. “It can’t make any difference to you, and there are not half a dozen people in Paris who could tell us apart. This island was the one haven he had; he might be forced to remain here for several years—until the Hand had forgotten him. He looked at her, his eyes filled with excited terror and astonishment at her move.
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