" "Her release would be a mercy," pursued the matron. “—and your aunt—” For a time he searched for the mot juste. Her cheeks burned for a moment or two when she reached the street, although she held her head upright and walked blithely, even humming to herself fragments of an old French song. Who could say that the two weren't in collusion? When a chap like Spurlock jumped the traces, cherchez la femme, every time. She paced restlessly to the door and back again, biting her tongue on the hot words begging to be uttered. I must tell somebody—and you would understand. ’ He reached into an inner pocket of his coat and brought out a packet of papers.
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