His face turned a dark crimson. ” She shook her head gently. That’s as far as we go. That would be him. The evening breeze came; the bamboo shades on the veranda clicked and rasped; the loose edges of the manuscript curled. She recognized him as the man who had blundered into the wrong room. 175 “Before you tell me the whole story,” she emphasized the penultimate word, “just let me do something for you. Here he halted; and, looking upwards, read, at the foot of an immense sign-board, displaying a gaudily-painted angel with expanded pinions and an olive-branch, not the name he expected to find, but that of WILLIAM KNEEBONE, WOOLLENDRAPER.
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