Constance Widgett’s abundant copper-red hair was bent down over some dimly remunerative work—stencilling in colors upon rough, white material—at a kitchen table she had dragged up-stairs for the purpose, while on her bed there was seated a slender lady of thirty or so in a dingy green dress, whom Constance had introduced with a wave of her hand as Miss Miniver. "You'd better surrender quietly, Jack," he cried; "you've no chance. "The only disguise I ever put on is a dress-suit, and I look as natural as a pig at a Mahomedan dinner. All our fraternity are afraid of him; but I laugh at his threats.
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