‘Never mind where. ’ ‘Comment? How will it serve you to kill me?’ ‘I do not need to kill you. ‘You’re right. Anna rummaged about in her dressingcase, and finally drew out a letter. She was shifting, moving back. “MY DEAR DAUGHTER,” it ran,—“Here, on the verge of the season of forgiveness I hold out a last hand to you in the hope of a reconciliation. I might have known it. A few minutes later Sir John left the room. I told him Valade had tried to borrow money off me and asked if he could vouch for the fellow. “By Jove!” he exclaimed.
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