Chapter XI THE PUZZLEMENT OF NIGEL ENNISON Nigel Ennison walked towards his club the most puzzled man in London. There, hanging among Ann Veronica’s more normal clothing, was a skimpy dress of red canvas, trimmed with cheap and tawdry braid, and short—it could hardly reach below the knee. But no more of that. "But I give no information gratis!" "Speak, then," said Rowland, placing money in his hand. She tied the obi clumsily about her waist, then gently laid her hand on the bowed head. She dropped the manuscripts and swiftly brought the coat to him, noting that a button hung loose. The pieces fell to the ground in a little white shower. "If you knew how much importance I attach to your answer," he continued passionately, "you would not refuse me one. Could she go through with it? She must.
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