Wendy Washburn was quietly returning to the morning-room where he had so abruptly left me.
I decided to make sure of this, however, before opening that door, for a latch-key was already fumbling in the lock. So as the shadow bent lower I squinted out through the drawn-work hem of the curtain.
I saw there, not the spare figure of my Hero-Man, but a much lustier figure in a checked tweed suit. This figure, I further saw, now wore a fawn-colored necktie with a gold horse-shoe in its folds, and a brand-new fawn-colored Fedora hat, to say nothing of sulphur-colored gloves with black stitching. The face that bent down so close to the door, I further saw, was shaved close, with a distinct pink and copper tone showing through a generous brushing of talcum powder. And then I understood.
It was Michael O'Toole, got up regardless, come to carry off his true love in swan's-down. It was my old friend Mike, alias Pinky McClone, venturing forth to do away with one Wendy Washburn whom, doubtless, he had as yet failed to meet, judging from the immaculate condition of his apparel and the somewhat irate expression of his face. For the skeleton-blank with which Pinky was so busily trying to open that door was not behaving as
