With something near to horror they found themselves thus confronted. If we were to wait till a prig was rightfully nabbed, we might tarry till doomsday. It got on my nerves—the women I saw. ” She controlled a sob. The hand which the man had been holding hung limp and nerveless at her side. Constance Widgett’s abundant copper-red hair was bent down over some dimly remunerative work—stencilling in colors upon rough, white material—at a kitchen table she had dragged up-stairs for the purpose, while on her bed there was seated a slender lady of thirty or so in a dingy green dress, whom Constance had introduced with a wave of her hand as Miss Miniver.
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