” “But, my dear Peter!” said Miss Stanley. You are not my husband. I couldn’t help the thought. Like a nightmare memory that returned again and again to haunt her. It does not matter to him either way. ‘And it is not only a question of her identity, but a matter of her life as well. ’ ‘Of course she could not have known to whom they belonged. She could still remember his face, the perpetually wet lips that turned down at the sides, his drooping Roman eyes. Close upon this came another thought. “But—your people!” she gasped. After all, what could happen? He was looking at her very hard and earnestly. .
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