That had taken her by surprise, and her tired wits had failed her. She staggered to the fireplace and thrust it into the heart of the dying flames. Then to the Golden Ball, in the same street. I think she might be up to something. That was the true marvel of it. She turned there, clasped her hands behind her back and put up her chin. “It has been a delightful evening for me. The conflict was of short duration; for Shotbolt was no match for his athletic antagonist. She watched for five minutes until he completely disappeared over Pine Crest, past the yellow fire hydrant and the dented stop sign. The fire—if there was any in him—never made headway against this insistant demand to know the significance of these manifold inward agitations.
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