Hearl on HounslowHeath. 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. She reached a tiny yellow-fronted cottage covered with flowering creepers, and entered the front room by the wide-open window. It was no use. “I knew,” she said, in a low despairing tone, “that people would talk. As she looked in this direction, the thief-taker raised his eyes—those gray, blood-thirsty eyes!—their glare froze the life-blood in her veins. And, in fact, all round the problem you don’t know and I don’t see how I could possibly have told you before.
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