"What do you mean by that, sirrah?" cried Wood, reddening with anger. They were ingenious disguises of gilt paper destructively gummed, it would seem, to Ann Veronicas’ best dancing-slippers. She felt sticky and ashamed when he dropped her off a block away from the McCloskey house as she had requested. ‘Gérard—’ ‘What now?’ he asked, rife with suspicion. So appalling was the sight, that even the murderers—familiar as they were with scenes of slaughter,—looked aghast at it. Not that he deliberately courted danger; it was rather the searcher, seeking analysis, the why and wherefore of this or that invading emotion.
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