To his consternation, she was holding an unwieldy, ugly-looking pistol, all wood and tarnished steel, with both hands about the butt. To find the true father at the expense of the beautiful fairy tale Ruth had woven around the woman in the locket was an intolerable thought. Ann Veronica said nothing. Nigel Ennison was he. The spinsters—who on the morrow would vanish out of the girl's life for ever—had already left their imprint upon her imagination. But beyond "amicable agreement in which mutual concessions are made," the word "compromise" was as blank as the Canton wall at night. But when he looked again, there she was! "I don't understand," he said, finally. It might be upset.
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