Had it come already? Chapter XXVII JOHN FERRINGHAM, GENTLEMAN “Confess, my dear husband,” Annabel said lightly, “that you are bewildered. ‘I thought it must be you,’ cried the woman. A moment before, the surface of the stream was black as ink. She was a small blonde, not handsome, but with a flair for fashion demonstrated by her elegant chemise gown in the very latest Canterbury muslin, with its low décolletage barely concealed under a fine lawn handkerchief set about her shoulders, and decorated with a mauve satin sash at the waist. But how to avail himself of it was the question, for in his present garb he was sure to be recognised. I didn't mean it. She inhaled a deep breath of air—London air.
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