Restlessness, then, was the trouble, simple restlessness: home bored her. Annabel had taken her life into her hands with gay insouciance, had made her own friends, gone her own way. The comtesse always felt Madame Valade to be not of her class, of course. “I knew,” she said, in a low despairing tone, “that people would talk. “Look, dear,” she said presently, “you can put the ten on the Jack. She wondered wildly why she had stood up. Only a book detective could dope this out. If ever he requires my services, he shall find I'm not ungrateful. “Another young woman, I suppose,” he said, “who knows better than her Maker about her place in the world. Have the goodness to affix your name to that memorandum, Sir Rowland. Presently she became aware of footsteps hurrying after her, and glanced back to find Miss Klegg, a little out of breath, in pursuit.
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