The telegram dispatched, his obligation cancelled, Ah Cum proceeded homeward, chuckling occasionally. Parbleu, but must she do this all through the house? Evidently she must, for not only could she not properly see the paintings and portraits that hung on the walls, but she was in imminent danger of bumping into the sheet-shrouded furniture. The Bitchster strikes again. Stanley regarded his neighbor’s clean-shaven face almost warily. It was Sunday evening—a soft delicious evening, and, from the happy, cheerful look of the house, none would have dreamed of the dismal tragedy so lately acted within its walls. They bounced without merriment over bumpy Roman roads, and by the time they arrived she was extremely nauseous. The street was deserted, no pedestrian school-goers walked immediately in front or behind them.
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