“MY DEAR MISS STANLEY,” it began,—“I hope you will forgive my bothering you with a letter, but I have been thinking very much over our conversation at Lady Palsworthy’s, and I feel there are things I want to say to you so much that I cannot wait until we meet again. ‘At me,’ she uttered, holding her own pistol high and aiming it steadily. She winked at him as he shut the door. “Does he ever ask about me?” She asked, feeling like a cuckolded old maid. He came along, he said, just to call, with large, loud apologies, radiantly kind and good. “I have come to tell you this. Creeping along quickly on his hands and knees, he found the entrance to a covered drain, into which he crept.
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