It was a motor accident—a fatal motor accident the evening papers called it. While this was going on, Blueskin, seeing no notice whatever taken of him, coughed loudly and repeatedly. And let us go on with our evening. But perhaps I had better get a room in an hotel to-night and look round. She had to think of something fast, or her reaction would start to make believers out of everyone. Wood obeyed. She had black hair, fine eyebrows, and a clear complexion; and the forces that had modelled her features had loved and lingered at their work and made them subtle and fine. She had never thought of him at all in that way before. " "You'd better take care of your mother's son instead," rejoined Blueskin. You'll be wasting his time. .
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