The spy—if there was one hiding out in the late Jarvis Remenham’s empty house—would be taken unawares. Fly! they shall knock me on the head—curse 'em!—before they shall touch you. “I don’t know whether I shall go on,” said Gwen, a novel note of languorous professionalism creeping into her voice. Paris looms behind—a tragedy of strange recollections—here she emerges Phœnix-like, subtly developed, a flawless woman, beautiful, self-reliant, witty, a woman with the strange gift of making all others beside her seem plain or vulgar.
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