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Behind them stalked Blueskin, enveloped in a rough great-coat, called—appropriately enough in this instance,—a wrap-rascal. In the adjacent apartment Ann Veronica found a middle-aged woman with a tired face under the tired hat she wore, sitting at a desk opening letters while a dusky, untidy girl of eight-or nine-and-twenty hammered industriously at a typewriter. "Her ladyship—" faltered the attendant. "It is past," said Jack, placing his finger on the trigger. Wood, with a message for Lady Trafford. But this is a great lark, Ann Veronica! This turns life into a glorious adventure!” “Ah!” she cried in triumph.

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