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Lucy was filled with happiness, it was her third Christmas at the Becks. ” “You did not notice anything which may have escaped this lady? You saw no one leave the flats?” “No one,” Brendon answered. Annabel had taken her life into her hands with gay insouciance, had made her own friends, gone her own way. “You must have heard—have you—oh, tell me, won’t you?” she begged. Upon a table, where they had been hastily deposited, on the intelligence of Darrell's accident, lay a pair of pink kid gloves, bordered with lace, and an enormous fan; the latter, when opened, represented the metamorphosis and death of Actæon.

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