“Number 13, please, cabman. If the Wastrel had not turned the instant he did, the ball would have missed him; as it was he turned directly into its path. She began to think persistently of Capes, and it seemed to her now that for some weeks at least she must have been thinking persistently of him unawares. After all, he had the means of setting this tormenting doubt at rest. A modest drinking bout which had its windup in a fan-tan house over in Kowloon, where O'Higgins tussled with varying fortune until five in the morning. Immediately beneath her lay Willesden,—the most charming and secluded village in the neighbourhood of the metropolis—with its scattered farm-houses, its noble granges, and its old grey church-tower just peeping above a grove of rook-haunted trees. He should never sufficiently be able to regret the return which they had made to her.
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