He stepped quickly towards her. This was irregular. Now I have done something for which you might be pardoned if you did kill me. Upon my word—you are Miss Pellissier, aren’t you?” “I certainly am,” she admitted. “How so?” “I should have shared these things with you earlier, my sweet heart. Upon a table, where they had been hastily deposited, on the intelligence of Darrell's accident, lay a pair of pink kid gloves, bordered with lace, and an enormous fan; the latter, when opened, represented the metamorphosis and death of Actæon. ‘How she pouted, and tried to make out that she had been imposed upon.
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