“Odd!” he remarked, rather surprisingly, after a little interval. Pragmar, the wholesale druggist, who lived three gardens away, and who had been mowing his lawn to get an appetite for dinner, standing in a fascinated attitude beside the forgotten lawn-mower and watching her intently. She waited expectantly. “Oh, that. “Why not?” he exclaimed. Her sense of humour could not wholly resist his abnormal gravity. ’ ‘What name would you like, then?’ Her shadowed features turned in his direction. How Jack Sheppard's Portrait was painted. You are—or rather you were——” he corrected himself with an unpleasant little laugh, “Miss Pellissier, eh?” A little sensation followed upon his words.
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