Capes was an exceptionally fair man of two or three-and-thirty, so ruddily blond that it was a mercy he had escaped light eyelashes, and with a minor but by no means contemptible reputation of his own. Either it was an unfortunate recovery of a trail, or he had followed her from Mayfair. Swiftly following the sound of knocking, she crossed right and passed through a door near the windows—and found herself in the bookroom. “Gellett,” he called, “just come and clear up a mess, will you? I’ve smashed some things. So the charge was dismissed. At length he proceeded toward McClintock's bungalow, drawn by the lights and the sound of music. The knowledge breathed into her heart a satisfying warmth.
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