All the turnkeys rose to salute the thief-taker, whose habitually-sullen countenance looked gloomier than usual. There were neither texts nor rubbish on the walls, but only a stirring version of Belshazzar’s feast, a steel engraving in the early Victorian manner that had some satisfactory blacks. “What do you think you are doing?” He asked. You are not unlike Pandora. She passed inside and upstairs without a word. “I don’t mind, of course, your seeing her sometimes, still there are differences— differences in social atmospheres. Chapter XXI HER SISTER’S SECRET “I think,” Lady Ferringhall said, “that you are talking very foolishly. The musician.
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