An old man with a bent back who limped in, slow and stiff, leaning heavily on a cane. “It’s jolly,” he said, “to feel you have come to me. " "Sir Rowland is my brother," resumed Lady Trafford coldly. It was his redemption, his ticket out of hell—that blue-serge coat. His face will be all I need. “You must arrest me!” she gasped, breathlessly, insisting insanely on a point already carried; “you shall!” The police-station at the end seemed to Ann Veronica like a refuge from unnamable disgraces.
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