"Agreed," responded the Master. Constance Widgett’s abundant copper-red hair was bent down over some dimly remunerative work—stencilling in colors upon rough, white material—at a kitchen table she had dragged up-stairs for the purpose, while on her bed there was seated a slender lady of thirty or so in a dingy green dress, whom Constance had introduced with a wave of her hand as Miss Miniver. Ray Plote was most certainly feeling restless, what if he had left the house for the evening? She needed to eat. Wood scarcely knew where he was. “He would never have found you out if you had not personated me.
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