His attraction for her was now written plainly on his freckled face, revealed by the many drinks he had imbibed. Ever and again Capes appealed to Ann Veronica. The door into the passage offered itself with an irresistible invitation—the one alternative to a public, inexplicable passion of weeping. She had a horrible glimpse of the once nice little old lady being also borne stationward, still faintly battling and very muddy—one lock of grayish hair straggling over her neck, her face scared, white, but triumphant. Swiftly she ran her hands over the carvings, trying to find the lever to the secret panel again. But that was soon put right, and she walked out into London with a peculiar exaltation of mind, an exaltation that partook of panic and defiance, but was chiefly a sense of vast unexampled release.
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