The little matter of an accent may be misleading, I grant you, but —’ He was interrupted, and with impatience. CHAPTER XVIII The doctor reached for the key and studied it sombrely. On some insane score she fancied she had to state her case in verse. She opened her suitcase—new and smelling strongly of leather—and took out of it a book, dogeared and precariously held together, bound in faded blue cloth and bearing the inscription: The Universal Handbook. Only she is not Madame Valade at all. It was explosive and gratifying. “There’s no one here except me. He's down in Patagonia somewhere. She was an Egyptian, from the magical times.
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