“What have I done, Miss Pellissier?” he pleaded. She met the keen grey eyes of a clean-shaven man, between forty and fifty, quietly dressed in professional attire. Constance Widgett’s abundant copper-red hair was bent down over some dimly remunerative work—stencilling in colors upon rough, white material—at a kitchen table she had dragged up-stairs for the purpose, while on her bed there was seated a slender lady of thirty or so in a dingy green dress, whom Constance had introduced with a wave of her hand as Miss Miniver. Couldn’t make head nor tail of that note of yours. You’re neither of you any longer under arrest. Old pupil.
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