It was 1582. Heaven knows what dim and tawdry conceptions of passion and desire were in that blond cranium, what romance-begotten dreams of intrigue and adventure! but they sufficed, when presently Ann Veronica went out into the darkling street again, to inspire a flitting, dogged pursuit, idiotic, exasperating, indecent. As for the patient, his decision was immediate. After dinner Ann Veronica went into the drawing-room with Miss Stanley, and her father went up to his den for his pipe and pensive petrography. “MY DEAR VERONICA,—Your aunt tells me you have involved yourself in some arrangement with the Widgett girls about a Fancy Dress Ball in London. There’s something about you, a little flavor of Will, I suppose, that makes one feel—good luck about you and success. Unless—would he hide from them as he had hidden from her? It was a big house, he said. ‘Didn’t mean it, love. ‘Yes, like you,’ she snapped, with a venomous glance, her role evidently forgotten for the moment. O'Higgins was all that the doctor had imagined a detective to be: a bulky policeman in civilian clothes.
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