It was obvious that he had waited for her. Constance Widgett’s abundant copper-red hair was bent down over some dimly remunerative work—stencilling in colors upon rough, white material—at a kitchen table she had dragged up-stairs for the purpose, while on her bed there was seated a slender lady of thirty or so in a dingy green dress, whom Constance had introduced with a wave of her hand as Miss Miniver. He could not tell by the look of her whether she was glad or sorry that presently she would be free. "You'll be as good as your word, my charmer," whispered the executioner.
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