He reached the top floor and ran down the corridor to the little dressing room at the end where he had lost her before. Snatching-up his pistols, he rushed to the door, but to his horror found it fastened. Widgett was a journalist and art critic, addicted to a greenish-gray tweed suit and “art” brown ties; he smoked corncob pipes in the Avenue on Sunday morning, travelled third class to London by unusual trains, and openly despised golf. She didn’t choose her man. Lucy was silent. Then he sensed the trap.
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