“I tell you it was a lie!” he shouted wildly. But at length, there was a click, and with a swish, the panel of painted books swung outward from the wall. The features were indistinct, but was that not a halo of white about it? And the dark shadow below, was that a cloak, or the habit of a nun? Skirting the dancing, from which he had taken a breather—not from lack of energy, but to escape the inanities of the young ladies he had partnered—Gerald made his way to a side door in the saloon and opened it. The autumn rain had made every surface tacky, the wet seats of painted red picnic tables were avoided. “You know—,” said Mr.
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