Ennison had disappeared. He shut his eyes and groped for the wall to steady himself, wondering if this bit of mummery would get over. There was a concerted gasp of shock from both the black-garbed lad and the coachman. Both had dropped the rather elaborate politeness of the dining-room, and in their faces an impartial observer would have discovered little lines of obstinate wilfulness in common; a certain hardness—sharp, indeed, in the father and softly rounded in the daughter—but hardness nevertheless, that made every compromise a bargain and every charity a discount. "That's it!" cried Wild when Trenchard concluded. The detective reckoned that his quarry would be up in ten days more. She opened it and drew out a letter, and folded within it were the notes she had sent off to Ramage that day. His gaze drawn, Gerald watched him dip to pick up a crushed square of white linen and a starched object that resembled a helmet.
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