Eve walked by my side, her head a little thrown
back, her eyes for a moment half closed.
"But London is delicious on days like this!" she exclaimed. "What are you
going to do with me, Mr. Walmsley?"
"Take you down to the Archbishop of Canterbury and marry you!" I
threatened.
She shook her head.
"I couldn't be married on a Friday! Let us go and see some pictures
instead."
We went into the National Gallery and wandered round for an hour. She knew
a great deal more about the pictures than I did, and more than once made
me sit down by her side to look at one of her favorite masterpieces.
"I want to go to Bond Street now," she said when we left, "I think it will
be quite all right at this time in the afternoon, and there are some weird
things to be seen there. Do you mind?"
We walked again along Pall Mall. Passing the Carlton she suddenly clutched
at my arm. A little stifled cry escaped her; the color left her cheeks. We
increased our speed. Presently she breathed a sigh of relief.
"Heavens, what an escape!" she exclaimed. "Do you think he saw me?"
"Do you mean the young man who was getting out of the taxicab?"
She nodded.
"One of our victims," she murmured; "daddy's victim, rather.
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