Five minutes ago, his butler had entered the green saloon, an austere apartment, with dark forest-green wallpaper flocked with a swirling design, and heavy mahogany furniture. “Home, of course,” she answered. At last she glanced at a little clock in the corner of the room, and sprang to her feet. “I hope,” said Miss Stanley, with dignity, and turned doorward with features in civil warfare. ‘I am not a person, Marthe. Well one night, some of us saw him, or thought we saw him, at a café dining with ‘Alcide,’—as a matter of fact, it seems that it was her sister.
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