“I don’t know whether I shall go on,” said Gwen, a novel note of languorous professionalism creeping into her voice. Raven locks fell to her shoulders from under the feathered beaver hat, and curled away down her back. ” The detective went down on his hands and knees. He resented being regarded as irregular. He confided to me that he felt trapped in his marriage, that he was being ruined by fate. Seeming to feel that this statement called for explanation, he added, ‘I been working for the sisters six month, see. The vicomte has, he say, enough femmes in his hands. "Thinking it likely you might desire to have this information, I prepared accordingly.
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