“MY DEAR VERONICA,—Your aunt tells me you have involved yourself in some arrangement with the Widgett girls about a Fancy Dress Ball in London. At the sight of her he became rigid and a singularly bright shade of pink. I never have known you. Think of those days in Paris. I went to her rooms to-night. Spurlock, filled with self-mockery, sat in a chair on the west veranda. She felt her canines grow, the hunger consuming her. I didn’t allow myself to see things as they were in those days; now I do. Uttering a terrible imprecation, Blueskin placed the knife between his teeth, and endeavoured to seize the poor woman by the throat. .
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