There were two of them. Sepulchre's clock struck eight. “I don’t care,” said Ann Veronica. "Hist!" cried Rowland, arresting his comrade. “I believe it is. Capes stood side by side upon an old Persian carpet that did duty as a hearthrug in the dining-room of their flat and surveyed a shining dinner-table set for four people, lit by skilfully-shaded electric lights, brightened by frequent gleams of silver, and carefully and simply adorned with sweet-pea blossom. It was his redemption, his ticket out of hell—that blue-serge coat.
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