B. “Look here, daddy,” she said, in a tone of great reasonableness, “I MUST go to that dance, you know. It was a large, littered, self-forgetful apartment, decorated with unframed charcoal sketches by various incipient masters; and an open bookcase, surmounted by plaster casts and the half of a human skull, displayed an odd miscellany of books—Shaw and Swinburne, Tom Jones, Fabian Essays, Pope and Dumas, cheek by jowl. The detective rapidly sketched the appearance of the room in his notebook, and picked up the pistol from under the table. Ann Veronica had one of her flashes of insight.
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