A gust of irrational impatience blew through her being. She was unusually pale, and her eyes were brilliant. The family always managed to make it home for supper, even though it was a dying custom. “What made you marry him? What made you leave Paris without a word to any one? What made you and your sister exchange identities?” “There is one answer to all those questions, Nigel,” she said, with a nervous little shudder. “I have always,” she admitted calmly, “taken a certain amount of interest in Annabel’s future. “It jars. " "Thames Ditton—is that your name?" "No," replied the boy, impatiently; "Darrell—Thames Darrell. ” Courtlaw was pale and dishevelled.
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