Then she passed from the room on the arm of General Lord Charvill, chatting animatedly to him. It was only a few months ago that I told you you must come to London, and you only laughed at me. It was a port of call, since fortnightly a British mail-boat dropped her mudhook in the bay. Indeed, it was his boast that he could find his way through any part of London blindfolded; and by this time, it would seem, he had nearly arrived at his destination; for, grasping his companion's arm, he led him along a narrow entry which did not appear to have an outlet, and came to a halt. “La belle ‘Alcide,’ wasn’t it? Annabel Pellissier was her real name. Past her shot the little old lady in the bonnet, running incredibly fast, but otherwise still alertly respectable, and she was making a strange threatening sound as she ran, such as one would use in driving ducks out of a garden—“B-rr-r-r-r—!” and pawing with black-gloved hands. Practically it was most of the chief interests in life that she proposed to settle in this pedestrian meditation. “Annabel!” she exclaimed. "Is it poison?" she asked.
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