Surely it was a dream. “So you’re the one my son has been talking about. "And now to dispose of our dead. “How crude you are, Anna!” she exclaimed with a little sigh. ” The detective nodded. For a time he heard no more, and stared with stony eyes at a Book-War proclamation in leaded type that filled half a column of the Times that day. If he adhered to this policy—to keep away from her inconspicuously—she would forget the name by night, and to-morrow even the bearer of it would sink below the level of recollection. Fifty in advance. But for the next few days he avoided Cheveney like the plague.
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