She met his eye for a moment in curious surprise. “What of her? Have you quarrelled with her?” The girl shook her head. "That was the lad's name," returned the stranger. He stared at the woman depicted thereon for a long moment, awe in his head. The arrested women were herded in a passage of the Panton Street Police-station that opened upon a cell too unclean for occupation, and most of them spent the night standing. “Who killed her husband?” “Go and nurse him, missus!” “Murderess!” Anna looked from left to right. ‘But a spy I am not. Phillips Oppenheim AUTHOR OF “THE SECRET”, “THE TRAITORS”, ETC.
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