Sheppard uttered a piercing scream. \"Drives a red Jeep?\" \"Uh-huh. ” “It is Number 8, Cavendish Square,” she answered simply. Hadn’t the stomach to admit the truth, had he? I’ll lay any money he labelled you with some foul French name as well. And I want you for myself—for my wife. It’s a sort of home-leaving instinct. With the usual precautions, Austin then departed. Imagination, coloured by the obscurity, peopled the air with phantoms. We mustn’t make it so.
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