I think not, Annabel. To-night we leave for Marseilles. But I've an idea as well as you, grounded in some measure upon Sheppard's story. The young man's imagination suddenly pictured the man as a rock, loosed from its ancient bed, crumbling as it fell. When he comes he will do that raid of the pantechnicons the justice it deserves; he will picture the orderly evening scene about the Imperial Legislature in convincing detail, the coming and going of cabs and motor-cabs and broughams through the chill, damp evening into New Palace Yard, the reinforced but untroubled and unsuspecting police about the entries of those great buildings whose square and panelled Victorian Gothic streams up from the glare of the lamps into the murkiness of the night; Big Ben shining overhead, an unassailable beacon, and the incidental traffic of Westminster, cabs, carts, and glowing omnibuses going to and from the bridge. He came to her and stood before her, waiting, the morning light dazzling his eyes. This man was her husband in the eyes of both God and man. ’ ‘But Gérard knows. He looked across at Annabel, and he groaned. . A detective will be here in a few moments to make inquiries into this affair.
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