Who is she, I say?” “My sister!” Annabel faltered. Another picture slid across her vision. . “I’m d——d if I understand this,” he said thoughtfully. ‘Ah, Madame Joan. To his consternation, she was holding an unwieldy, ugly-looking pistol, all wood and tarnished steel, with both hands about the butt. They even talked about friendship. ’ ‘Can’t say as I’m sorry to hear you say that, missie,’ confessed the sergeant, on a relieved note, as he locked the front door of the mansion and pocketed the key. Neither of them believed me. It was not due to shyness: it was the inherent instinct of the Woman, a protective fear that she must retain some elements of mystery in order to hold the interest of the male.
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