“I wondered. The boy was right. They went to the gate and stopped there, gabbed with their men, and didn’t even dismount. And she felt that if she went home it was imperative to pay. ‘How did you get in? The house is all locked up. That last year in Paris, when Annabel and she had lived in different worlds, had often been a nightmare to her. The conflict was of short duration; for Shotbolt was no match for his athletic antagonist. The features were indistinct, but was that not a halo of white about it? And the dark shadow below, was that a cloak, or the habit of a nun? Skirting the dancing, from which he had taken a breather—not from lack of energy, but to escape the inanities of the young ladies he had partnered—Gerald made his way to a side door in the saloon and opened it.
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