" "Whom do you mean?" demanded Jackson. He must have been following her from room to room, silent in his stockinged feet. James Figg was the most perfect master of self-defence of his day. She was sore and overstrung, and it was intolerable to her that he should stand within three yards of her unsuspectingly, with an incalculably vast power over her happiness. It was a motor accident—a fatal motor accident the evening papers called it. It is the old story of a Westerner meddling with an Eastern custom. She rested her head upon his shoulder. The bus however was full.
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