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The next moment, a heavy plunge told that the fugitive had been consigned to the waves. Miss Annabel is her sister. Constance Widgett’s abundant copper-red hair was bent down over some dimly remunerative work—stencilling in colors upon rough, white material—at a kitchen table she had dragged up-stairs for the purpose, while on her bed there was seated a slender lady of thirty or so in a dingy green dress, whom Constance had introduced with a wave of her hand as Miss Miniver. Sister’s got married to that bounder Ferringhall. She accomplished it with the aid of the young fellow’s hand, and stepped down into the road, glancing up at the house as she did so. Hanging on the wall was a temple censer, bronze, moulded in the shape of a lotus blossom with stem and leaves—deadly as a club. Her mother did not seem to like the new doctor at all, shunning him with a near superstitious dread. For all that, it is folly. Tomorrow, I shall carry you before Justice Walters, who'll take your information; and I've no doubt but Thames Darrell will be fully committed.
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