What the devil is the matter, Dunster?” “I beg your pardon, sir,” the man answered, “there is a lady here to see you. It was a pity people had to eat food. A vague desire to justify himself ruffled her father. Even that he was an interfering person, if he walked through that door this moment, she would fling herself at him and weep all over his chest. He was a good foster dad that had never so much as leered at her, not even once. I picked up her handkerchief on the floor. The lines about his mouth gradually softened. It was bare of any furnishings. He passed but a cursory glance over the formal certificate that identified the Frenchman before him as one André Valade, distant cousin to the Vicomte Valade. She was dressed in a simple evening gown of soft creamy silk, with a yoke of dark old embroidery that enhanced the gentle gravity of her style, and her black hair flowed off her open forehead to pass under the control of a simple ribbon of silver.
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