’ Chapter Three Captain Hilary Roding listened with only half an ear to the long-winded report being given by Sergeant Trodger, his idle gaze wandering over the congested traffic of Piccadilly and the many pedestrians weaving a hazardous path through it. She wore a plain black dress, reaching almost to her throat—her small oval face, with the large brown eyes, was colourless, delicately expressive, yet with something mysterious in its Sphinx-like immobility. " "My God!" cried Trenchard, stunned by the intelligence, "I have killed her. But David Courtlaw has been here. Of course, there'll be a few kinks to straighten out. The air might be cool, but half an hour without head-gear was an invitation to sunstroke. "No; we never had one; at least, I never saw it. ‘Yes, miss. What about them?” He called a hansom. “Julian, please, let’s go to your place.
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