And Anna was conscious of a few moments of exquisite emotion. “That young man was giving a luncheon party to a dozen friends at the Café de Paris to-day. But I have powerful friends. As much as it killed her, she kept her mouth shut. . The echo of those kindly words seemed still to ring in her ears. It did not matter that he wore the cloth; something was wrong with him. Snatching-up his pistols, he rushed to the door, but to his horror found it fastened. Take care he don't see you,—and bring me word where he goes, and what he does. She had been obliged to spend the night in that fateful bedchamber, the faithful Kimble—who had foraged at a nearby inn, bringing back a large pie and a jug of porter for his mistress—guarding the door outside. They could not have called it a fatal motor accident if he had not been dead.
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