” Lucy coolly marveled as she studied the girl’s face, belly swollen from pregnancy. We went our ways. Ramage. ” The cabman, knocking with the butt end of his whip upon the window, reminded her that he was in a similar predicament. She could not help herself. She was not squeamish—although the sight of the sergeant’s ominous preparations had severely tried her fortitude—but Kimble’s white face plagued her conscience. “You must play for us again sometime. "The key," replied the widow. Somewhere you may stumble upon a clew to his identity. These fellows must be right,” he added thoughtfully, “and yet—there’s a mystery somewhere.
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