He carried a cane and a silk hat with a mourning-band in one gray-gloved hand; his frock-coat and trousers were admirable; his handsome face, his black mustache, his prominent brow conveyed an eager solicitude. Sheppard, paralysed by the threat. Fear nothing. “Why? Do you think I’m a stoner?” He asked. He touched a long-standing sore, and Ann Veronica found herself vainly trying to explain—the inexplicable. As she drew off her skirt she felt something in the pocket, and remembered the letter which the commissionaire at the Carlton had given her. Anna stared back at every one with undaunted composure.
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