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Wood, in equal trepidation. Widgett was a journalist and art critic, addicted to a greenish-gray tweed suit and “art” brown ties; he smoked corncob pipes in the Avenue on Sunday morning, travelled third class to London by unusual trains, and openly despised golf. It was my destiny to have her. Also she had tried him as a dragoman and as a gendarme, which seemed the most suitable of all to his severely handsome, immobile profile. After debating with himself for some time whether he should employ an assistant, or make the attempt alone, his love of gain overcame his fears, and he decided upon the latter plan. "It is easy to make an assertion like this," said Thames, contemptuously. Even an unlikely episode such as this could not be ignored. Certainly you have a reason. She gazed steadily out of the window at that arc of glittering lights.
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