‘At me,’ she uttered, holding her own pistol high and aiming it steadily. Perhaps her odd beauty—and that too was natural—stirred these thoughts into being. She had never heard anything so unholy. It was not a hard face, but it was resolute. “How can you know?” “I think—perhaps I am rather a cold-blooded person. As she drew off her skirt she felt something in the pocket, and remembered the letter which the commissionaire at the Carlton had given her. She could not look at him through an interval that seemed to her a vast gulf of time. “I don’t see that his being a good sort matters.
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