“Let go!” she gasped at him, a blaze of anger. He HAD followed her! What had he followed her for? He must have followed her all the way from beyond Grosvenor Square. Why, he can scarcely be twenty. Pragmar, the wholesale druggist, who lived three gardens away, and who had been mowing his lawn to get an appetite for dinner, standing in a fascinated attitude beside the forgotten lawn-mower and watching her intently. Outside the post-office stood a nohatted, blond young man in gray flannels, who was elaborately affixing a stamp to a letter. And now I've another job for you.
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