The soi-disant Valade held the centre of the room now, only an uncovered but closed card-table, its surface dusty, between him and the suite at the fireplace. To her mind, recalling the picture of him the night before, there had been something tragic in the grim silent manner of his tippling. Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved. God send the fellow did turn out to be a spy! Beckoning Roding on, Gerald crept down the corridor towards the source of the swishing he had heard. There has never been a white woman at McClintock's. net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive) ANNA THE ADVENTURESS By E.
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