Gosse had moved forward, his pistol arm out straight, his aim true, the gun cocked. Run away now, please. “Which one?” “The Miss Pellissier in whose rooms you were, and who sings at the ‘Unusual,’” Courtlaw answered. If he wished, he could even take this inheritance from her. She could not judge its direction, and began to move swiftly along the bookshelves, her hand running behind her across the spines of the calfbound volumes. And yet—he thought of the supper party where he had met Annabel Pellissier, the stories about her, his own few minutes’ whispered lovemaking! He was a self-contained young man, but his cheeks grew hot at the thought of the things which it had seemed quite natural to say to her then, but which he knew very well would have been instantly resented by the girl whom he had just left. Her eyes quizzed the major. But a woman’s life is all chance.
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