She got up, put the neat cuffs she had made into her work-basket, and went to the bureau for the little cards in the morocco case. And as he gave back the portfolio to Sir Rowland he contrived, unobserved, to slip the precious document into his sleeve, and from thence into his pocket. But was it Faith? That is what she was this day going to find out. She wanted to think. “Call me Annabel. “You mustn’t talk any more,” he said, “but I want you to listen to me just for a moment. Either you have had to love people or hate them—which is a sort of love, too, in its way—to get anything out of them. . What was he doing? What was he thinking? It was less than a day now, less than twenty hours.
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