Ann Veronica forgot him as soon as she was through the gate, and her face resumed its expression of stern preoccupation. Three little letters can’t make a bit of difference. ‘Are you going to come quietly, mademoiselle?’ he demanded with grim determination. This done, he followed the course which Jack had just taken. He was a square-faced man of nearly fifty, with iron-gray hair a mobile, cleanshaven mouth and rather protuberant black eyes that now scrutinized Ann Veronica. His fingers slipped under the collar of her linen shift and he tore it open with a swipe. "What's the matter?" he cried.
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