Widgett was a journalist and art critic, addicted to a greenish-gray tweed suit and “art” brown ties; he smoked corncob pipes in the Avenue on Sunday morning, travelled third class to London by unusual trains, and openly despised golf. Madame Valade was looking heartily bored, he noted, as his searching eyes found out the couple. His stories had enchanted her, even if in some deep corner of her heart she guessed they were not entirely true. She too had seen. . "Woman, your wits are fled!" And so it seemed; for all the answer she could make was to murmur distractedly, "I can't find the key. "Get it over quickly," said Trenchard, in a whisper to the thief-taker. " Mr. ” “It is within yours—if anybody’s,” he answered. " "Farewell, Jack," cried twenty voices.
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