"Peter was down an hour ago." "That's not what I meant by 'down.' I meant 'awake.'" "No woman ever pays a bet if she can help it," said Horne, "-- though I've known exceptions.

But now, please, silence.

Geoffrey says he has something to tell us--an adventure--which was half his and half yours.
Which of you will begin ?" Helena threw a quick glance at Geoffrey, who nodded to her, perceiving at the same moment that she had in her hand the little embroidered bag of the night before.
"Geoffrey begins." "Well, it'll thrill you," said Geoffrey slowly, "because there was a spy among us last night--'takin' notes.'" And with the heightening touches that every good story-teller bestows upon a story, he described the vision of the lake--the strange woman's face, as he had seen it in the twilight beside the yew trees.
Buntingford gradually dropped his cigarette to listen.
"Very curious--very interesting," he said ironically, as French paused, "and has lost nothing in the telling." "Ah, but wait till you hear the end!" cried Helena.

"Now, it's my turn." And she completed the tale, holding up the bag at the close of it, so that the tarnished gold of its embroidery caught the light.
Buntingford took it from her, and turned it over.

Then he opened it, drew out the handkerchief, and looked at the initials, "'F.