"Let's try, at all events," returned the Amazon. "What the devil makes you out so late? And what has happened to you, man, eh?—you seem in a queer plight. CHAPTER VIII. The dusky obscurity of the room was twice welcome. The man who sat behind a pigeon-hole, and regulated the comings and goings, was for a moment absent. He would ask her to come to dinner with him in some little Italian or semiBohemian restaurant in the district toward Soho, or in one of the more stylish and magnificent establishments about Piccadilly Circus, and for the most part she did not care to refuse. "Friends!" echoed Kneebone, with a look of dismay. What are you after?’ ‘But my pistol and dagger, imbecile,’ she exclaimed impatiently, moving sharply back. And ever after it struck him that her backward smile as she disappeared was charged with some special significance. “But that’s not all. The thought of going back!—the thought of the unknown out there!—" with a tragic gesture toward the east. By and by—as the paroxysm subsided and he became motionless—she stole back to the bungalow to wait.
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