They were now in a sort of cellar, at one end of which was a door. Constance Widgett’s abundant copper-red hair was bent down over some dimly remunerative work—stencilling in colors upon rough, white material—at a kitchen table she had dragged up-stairs for the purpose, while on her bed there was seated a slender lady of thirty or so in a dingy green dress, whom Constance had introduced with a wave of her hand as Miss Miniver. “It’s the spring,” he said. They had been playing tennis, with his manifest intention looming over her. We’ll be somewhere on the floor above. The guests congregated within the night-cellar were, in fact, little better than thieves; but thieves who confined their depredations almost exclusively to the vessels lying in the pool and docks of the river. My wife—killed me. Do you know this, Sir?" he added, taking a key from his pocket.
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