The detective rapidly sketched the appearance of the room in his notebook, and picked up the pistol from under the table. "I'll tell you all about it presently. I hate what I am. It is not, my dear Veronica, that I think there is any harm in you; there is not. They could not have called it a fatal motor accident if he had not been dead. Her companion was a portly handsome man, also dressed in a full suit of the deepest mourning, with the finest of lace at his bosom and wrists, and a sword in a black sheath by his side. The supreme effect for Ann Veronica was its surpassing relevance; it made every other atmosphere she knew seem discursive and confused.
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