It was a night well-fitted to their enterprise, calm, still, and profoundly dark. Ramage pursed his rather loose lips and shrugged his shoulders, with his eyes fixed steadily upon her. He could hardly open the envelope, he trembled so. Ann Veronica brought her luggage in a cab from the hotel; she tipped the hotel porter sixpence and overpaid the cabman eighteenpence, unpacked some of her books and possessions, and so made the room a little homelike, and then sat down in a by no means uncomfortable arm-chair before the fire. After several vain attempts to burst it open, he resolved, as a last alternative, to break through the wall in the part nearest to the lock. He left the room, presumably to sleep elsewhere, but the only other room with a fire was the servant’s quarters. Annabel laughed a little uneasily. “Even Katy Pfister can’t touch you now.
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