“Very well,” said Manning. Sheppard. In another minute, the tramp of horses' feet told that the perpetrators of the outrage had effected their escape. Without her, it was lonely. Anna rummaged about in her dressingcase, and finally drew out a letter. He ushered them with an amiable flat hand into a minute apartment with a little gas-stove, a silk crimson-covered sofa, and a bright little table, gay with napery and hot-house flowers. She opened her suitcase—new and smelling strongly of leather—and took out of it a book, dogeared and precariously held together, bound in faded blue cloth and bearing the inscription: The Universal Handbook. "Then, the story of his death was false. We must wash out those stains up stairs, and burn the cloth. What'll we call him—Rollo?"—ironically. The truth was impossible, indecent.
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