Edgar Wallace

“ Was it worse to ride with a man who had revealed himself to be a member of one’s own class than with a policeman? Nevertheless, she knew it was wrong and met him—and that is where Constable Fellowe and Miss Sandford became “May” and “Frank” to one another. There had been nothing clandestine in their meetings.
Theodore Sandford, a hard-headed man, was immensely democratic. He joked about May’s policeman, made ponderous references to stolen visits to his palatial kitchen in search of rabbit-pie, and then there arose from a jesting nothing the question of Frank’s remaining in the force. ”

“ No one feature goes to the making of a woman, unless, indeed, it be her mouth. There is something in the poise of the head, in the method of arranging the hair, in the clearness and peach-like bloom of the complexion, in the carriage of the shoulders, the suppleness of the body, the springy tread—each characteristic furnished something to the beautiful whole. ”

“ Theodore Sandford looked up from his writing-table with an amused smile.
“So you’re really angry with your policeman, are you?” he asked.
But it was no joke to the girl. Her pretty face was set determinedly.
“Of course,” she shrugged her pretty shoulders, “Mr. Fellowe can do as he wishes—I have no authority over him”—this was not true—“but one is entitled to ask of one’s friends—”
There were tears of mortification in her eyes, and Sandford dropped his banter. He looked at the girl searchingly, anxiously. Her mother had died when May was a child ”