Upon my word—you are Miss Pellissier, aren’t you?” “I certainly am,” she admitted. Their conversation became stilted. She tucked her stick under her arm and re-read Manning’s letter. A door slammed. It was a copy of the pencil sketch taken of him nine years ago by Winifred, and awakened a thousand tender recollections. He shivered and looked behind as he stepped into his hansom. "Aliva, your child perished with its father. And a broken picture that was torn when I hit him with it. You are a girl with very little. "I must have dropped it when I took out my note-book. But—he was cleverer than any of you. I was—I was a corespondent. He meant to take her out of this room, perhaps even out of the house. Opposite, his pupil stood with bowed head and clasped hands. My Mom and Dad were always 184 at work.
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