"I will not submit to be thus interrogated," said Winifred, angrily. Cowering in a corner upon a heap of straw sat his unfortunate mother, the complete wreck of what she had been. She was thinking fast now, all her senses on the alert. She was in ill trim for walking, but somehow or other she made her way as far as the Champs Elysées, and sank down upon an empty seat. Without a word or a gesture, the Wastrel turned and staggered forth, out of the orbit of these two, having been thrust into it for a single purpose already described. " "Wear that to-night, then. . ’ ‘Miss?’ gaped the soldier. “I wonder,” he said, “is there anything we could do to help you to get rid of him?” “Can you think of anything?” Anna answered. She, having all the confidence in the world, ripped off an end and drew out the contents—a letter and a check. He thrust out a rhetorical hand.
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