“You blithering idiot!” he exclaimed. Melusine saw fire in his eyes and a streak of heat rushed through her to match it. Nothing has gone wrong here?" "Nothing whatever," replied Ireton. It was a motor accident—a fatal motor accident the evening papers called it. There were no doors in the bungalow; instead, there were curtains of strung bead and bamboo, always tinkling mysteriously. He had sold half a dozen short tales to thirdrate magazines; but this letter had been issued from a distinguished editorial room, of international reputation. Chapter XX ANNA’S SURRENDER “This is indeed a gala night,” said Ennison, raising his glass, and watching for a moment the golden bubbles. “I am sorry that I have murdered you.
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