Then light footsteps became audible, descending the staircase with a certain deliberation and a faint rustle of skirts. “What ought you to do?” “I’ve hunted up all sorts of things. I hope I haven't given any unintentional offence?" said the widow, again meekly appealing to Wood. He was a square-faced man of nearly fifty, with iron-gray hair a mobile, cleanshaven mouth and rather protuberant black eyes that now scrutinized Ann Veronica. “They have all been trying to turn my head. Only a book detective could dope this out. ” “Very sad—very sad indeed,” he remarked uneasily. His noble Florentine roots went back a thousand years, to the days of grand Rome herself.
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