Her aunt was blandly amiable above a certain tremulous undertow, and talked as if to a caller about the alarming spread of marigolds that summer at the end of the garden, a sort of Yellow Peril to all the smaller hardy annuals, while her father brought some papers to table and presented himself as preoccupied with them. And it filled seven sheets of notepaper, each written only on one side. “And what is it all about, Veronica?” he asked, with a deliberate note of irony, looking at her a little quizzically over his glasses. The little room was fragrant with flowers, Anna herself bright, and with all the evidences of well being. Out of the beaten track, far from the trails of men! He relaxed. ’ ‘Merci,’ she sighed and, surrendering at last to his oft-proffered aid, allowed her head to droop onto his chest. Swiftly she ran her hands over the carvings, trying to find the lever to the secret panel again.
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