” He started back as though he had been shot. The commissionaire smiled. She might even forgive him. The movement was fatal to her son. Immediately beneath her lay Willesden,—the most charming and secluded village in the neighbourhood of the metropolis—with its scattered farm-houses, its noble granges, and its old grey church-tower just peeping above a grove of rook-haunted trees. Again, he would ask a few questions, and Ruth would answer them. An old woman took her in. She slid her cheek down the tweed sleeve of his coat. He had found her in a communicative mood, and he used the accumulated skill of years in turning that to account. But at this point he was still subservient, still outwardly humble, in spite of the blackhearted villainy that was even then burgeoning in his breast. ’ ‘Oui, mais—safe.
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