Away off in the fields the bluesmocked peasants bent still at their toil. “Well, rather,” said Ann Veronica. Or had she, like himself, been held up until the fellow returned to town? He waited, his ready humour anticipating her likely reaction. Did he intend to kill her now, this instant? Or had she a moment or two to try to save herself? Recalling Leonardo’s dictum, she did not struggle, for that would only tighten the trap about her, and perhaps even spring it. ‘Yes, miss. “I’m sorry, ma’am, to seem the cause of any disturbance, but this,” he pointed to Anna, “is my wife. “My dear,” she said, when she could get her breath, “you must come home at once. I have an engagement with a theatrical agent—I believe for the ‘Unusual’. All three, then, burst into an immoderate fit of laughter. Here was the corner-stone of a capital story; but he knew that Howard Spurlock would never write it.
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