when it must have needed more than ordinary courage for either of
them to have been seen in public at all," Wilmore pointed out.

"It is as astounding to me as it is to you," Francis confessed.
"From the way she spoke, I should never have dreamed that they
were living together."

"And from his appearance," Wilmore remarked, as he called the
waiter to bring some cigarettes, "I should never have imagined
that he was anything else save a high-principled, well-born,
straightforward sort of chap. I never saw a less criminal type
of face."

They each in turn glanced at the subject of their discussion.
Oliver Hilditch's good-looks had been the subject of many press
comments during the last few days. They were certainly
undeniable. His face was a little lined but his hair was thick
and brown. His features were regular, his forehead high and
thoughtful, his mouth a trifle thin but straight and shapely.
Francis gazed at him like a man entranced. The hours seemed to
have slipped away. He was back in the tea-shop, listening to the
woman who spoke of terrible things. He felt again his shivering
abhorrence of her cold, clearly narrated story. Again he shrank
from the horrors from which with merciless fingers she had
stripped the coverings. He seemed to see once more the agony in
her white face, to hear the eternal pain aching and throbbing in
her monotonous tone. He rose suddenly to his feet.

"Andrew," he begged, "tell the fellow to bring the bill outside.
We'll have our coffee and liqueurs there."