Instinctively she had fallen into the posture of the poster, her hands behind her, her head bent slightly forward, her chin uplifted, her eyes bright with the drollery of the song. Spurling, for so was she named, had a warm nut-brown complexion, almost as dark as a Creole; and a moustache on her upper lip, that would have done no discredit to the oldest dragoon in the King's service. “You are magnificent,” she said, “but the steel of your truth is a little oversharpened. Chapter VI A QUESTION OF IDENTIFICATION The little man with the closely-cropped beard and hair looked at her keenly through his gold eye-glasses. But she does not resemble you in any other way. But you must leave us now, dear Winny, Jack and I have something to settle between ourselves.
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