In the act of holding out her hand, the woman’s delicate face took on that marble look that once or twice Hildegarde had seen there. And the hand dropped before it reached Cheviot’s.
Hildegarde looked from one to the other. “Why, what is it?”
“We have met before,” said Mrs. Locke.
“When was that?”
“On the Seattle wharf.”
“Oh, I didn’t remember.”
“I do. You are the man who nearly broke my arm.”