For a time she looked at no more apartments, and walked through gaunt and ill-cleaned streets, through the sordid under side of life, perplexed and troubled, ashamed of her previous obtuseness. The detective reckoned that his quarry would be up in ten days more. So saying, he manfully resumed his work; while Wood and Thames quitted the room, and went down stairs. “I’m only arguing against your position of what a woman should be, and trying to get it clear in my own mind. Who is to say that I am not André Valade, an obscure relation of the late vicomte. “I hope,” said Miss Stanley, with dignity, and turned doorward with features in civil warfare. Why, is the question I would like answered. You’ll end up dead, that’s what.
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