When Sheila was in a bad mood, she berated her new foster daughter for streaks on the windows, dust on the figurines, for crooked bed sheet corners, and floors that had not been waxed properly. She took the piece of paper and unfolded it in the safety of her lap. It would be an ice storm by midnight if it did not let up. “Go down and rescue the rags of my reputation,” she said, smiling. “I have signed a statement that I shot myself; bad trade and drink, both true—both true. So, at least, thought one of two persons who were seated together in a small back-parlour of the house at Dollis Hill. Wood. Well, if she survives the accident—as the blood, who styles himself Sir Cecil, fancies she may do—this ring will make my fortune by leading to the discovery of the chief parties concerned in this strange affair. ” “That’s horrible!” He gasped. “It isn’t a joke,” she said.
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