doubtless understood. (The
jury, however, at that instant had been engaged in examining the
bit of shrapnel which had been extracted from the brain of the only
daughter of a Marquis.) The Coroner understood that the wire-netting
did not extend over the whole of the house. "It extends over all the
main part of the house," his lordship had replied. "But not over the
back part of the house?" His lordship agreed. "The servants'
quarters, probably?" His lordship nodded. The Coroner had said: "The
wire-netting does not extend over the servants' quarters," in a very
even voice. A faint hiss in court had been extinguished by the sharp
glare of the Coroner's eyes. His lordship, a thin, antique figure, in
a long cloak that none but himself would have ventured to wear, had
stepped down, helpless.

There had been much signing of depositions. The Coroner had spoken of
The Hague Convention, mentioning one article by its number. The jury
as to the first three cases--in which the victims had been killed by
bombs--had returned a verdict of wilful murder against the Kaiser.
The Coroner, suppressing the applause, had agreed heartily with the
verdict. He told the jury that the fourth case was different, and
the jury returned a verdict of death from shrapnel. They gave
their sympathy to all the relatives, and added a rider about the
inadvisability of running unnecessary risks, and the Coroner, once
more agreeing heartily, had thereon made an effective little speech to
a hushed, assenting audience.

There were several motor-cars outside. G.J. signalled across the
street to the taxi-man who telephoned every morning to him for orders.
He had never owned a motor-car, and, because he had no ambition to
drive himself, had never felt the desire to own one. The taxi-man
experienced some delay in starting his engine. G.J. lit a cigarette.
Concepcion came out, alone. He had expected her to be with the
Marquis, with whom she had arrived. She was dressed in mourning. Only
on that day, and once before--on the day of her husband's funeral--had
he seen her in mourning. She looked now like the widow she was.

Nevertheless, he had not quite accustomed himself to the sight of her
in mourning.

"I wonder whether I can get a taxi?" she asked.

"You can have mine," said he. "Where do you want to go?"

She named a disconcerting address near Shepherd's Market.

At that moment a Pressman with a camera came boldly up and snapped
her. The man had the brazen