He touched her hand, soft and cool to his fingers—she turned at once to look at him. He would ask her to come to dinner with him in some little Italian or semiBohemian restaurant in the district toward Soho, or in one of the more stylish and magnificent establishments about Piccadilly Circus, and for the most part she did not care to refuse. Only of course I must begin something else at once. She drove me. “But all the rest of our case is right. I'm a slave to my word. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. I offer you my assistance on certain terms. Was this the result of some strange experiment? It was the person of Annabel Pellissier—the soul of a very different order of being. I wish that it worked. .
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