“Fred,” he said, “do you remember taking me to dinner at the ‘Ambassador’s,’ one evening last September, to meet a girl who was singing there? Hamilton and Drummond and his lot were with us. Brendon. He did not particularly care. He remained standing by the stem of the proa, his glance roving investigatingly. She is English, and apparently in some distress. Ramage pursed his rather loose lips and shrugged his shoulders, with his eyes fixed steadily upon her. Marthe has told me that the house comes to my mother, Ma—ry Re—men—ham. That is the dreadful truth.
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