It was a mad half-hour. "Lord, if I can only remember to write it exactly as you told it!" He jumped to his feet. The last thing that she remembered was her eyes crossing as she tried to focus upon the crunch of leaves as she lay heaving upon them, dampening them further with the outpouring of her sweat as it leaked from her clothing. Then she glanced at the cards again, over which her aunt’s many-ringed hand played, and then at the rather weak, rather plump face that surveyed its operations. The whole incident was so unexpected that neither Courtlaw nor Brendon were awaiting. She got up and unlocked the door. The Widgett mental furniture was perhaps worn and shabby, but there it was before you, undisguised, fading visibly in an almost pitiless sunlight.
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