In truth, Sheila never saw Lucy murder anyone at all, she only saw the blood. Only it was with a further and most unbelieving shrug of the shoulders that he resumed his seat. He himself, middle-aged, steeped in traditions of the City and moneymaking, very ill-skilled in all the lighter graces of life, as he himself well knew, could yet come to her invested with something of the halo of romance by the almost magical powers of an unlimited banking account. And she had been doubting since that walk in the Zoological Gardens whether, indeed, he did simply care for her. The blue jowl, the fat-lidded eyes—now merry, now alert, now tungsten hard—the bullet head, the pudgy fingers and the square-toed shoes were all in conformation with the doctor's olden mental picture. "Rowland," she rejoined, "you strive in vain to terrify me into compliance with your wishes. “But was it wise to sing to-night?” “Why not? The man was nothing to me.
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