She tried surreptitiously to reach her own dagger, in its cunning hiding place in her petticoat. Beyond was an avenue of tall poplars that rose like columns, disappearing into undulating hills that were black with sleeping houses and fertile soil. From a bi-secting street came shouting and music. Ennison seemed to feel already the shadow of tragedy approaching. ” “It was Cheveney!” he said slowly. ” She marked an hotel that seemed neither opulent nor odd in a little side street opening on the Embankment, made up her mind with an effort, and, returning by Hungerford Bridge to Waterloo, took a cab to this chosen refuge with her two pieces of luggage. ’ With difficulty, Gerald bit back a laugh. They can’t help seeing things in the way they do.
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