Outside the post-office stood a nohatted, blond young man in gray flannels, who was elaborately affixing a stamp to a letter. Moving swiftly to the end of the corridor, he pushed open a door at random and entered a large room, which looked to have been a saloon, judging from the faded gilt and crimson wall-paper, a mirror above the fireplace which was surrounded by an ornate gilded frame, now sadly tarnished, and a worn Chippendale sofa with striped upholstery and tasselled cushions. “Won’t you give me your address?” She shook her head. She laughed a little bitterly. Some of the lunatics were rattling their chains; some shrieking; some singing; some beating with frantic violence against the doors. ] THE RAGGED EDGE BY HAROLD MACGRATH AUTHOR OF DRUMS OF JEOPARDY, ETC. “I have come from a very unfashionable quarter,” she said, “and I do not think that I have been inside a milliner’s shop for a year. That he’s come here at all shows he’ll stop at nothing. Is all that folly done with—for ever?” Annabel shivered ever so slightly. They blinded me. She decided to go on, after a momentary halt. Still he looked hale and hearty, and the country life he led had imparted a ruddier glow to his cheek.
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