“It is like old times,” she said, “to hear these home truths. I shall still believe in you. In the adjacent apartment Ann Veronica found a middle-aged woman with a tired face under the tired hat she wore, sitting at a desk opening letters while a dusky, untidy girl of eight-or nine-and-twenty hammered industriously at a typewriter. To-morrow night —or rather to-night, for we are fast verging on another day—I propose to lure him out of the house by a stratagem which I am sure will prove infallible; and, then, what so easy as to knock him on the head. Her father had determined on a new line. "So I will," rejoined Shotbolt; "so I will. Even your family. But I do not know you at all, in truth, and I do not understand why you do this.
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