“Can I bring you anything, sir—a whisky and soda, or a liqueur? You’ll excuse me, sir, but you haven’t touched your coffee. It was a motor accident—a fatal motor accident the evening papers called it. ” He saw her into the train at Waterloo, and stood, a tall, grave figure, with hat upraised, as the carriage moved forward slowly and hid him. Let the law put its hand on his shoulder—if it could! But at present he was at liberty, and he purposed to remain in that state. He hadn't gambled or played the horses or hit the booze back there in little old New York…. I'll keep a look out that nothing happens.
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