She stood, as it were, directed doorward, with her eyes watching every movement, listening to him, repelled by him and yet dimly understanding. “MY DEAR GIRL,— “I am so sorry if we made asses of ourselves to-night. I just want him, and no one else will do. He glanced at Miss Klegg again, and spoke quickly and furtively, with eager eyes on Ann Veronica’s face. A stout female stood in the aperture, an oil lamp in her hand. "Who—who is the Marquis de Chatillon?" "Your adopted son, Thames Darrell," answered Winifred. Stopping before each door, they took up the plates of the locks, examined the ponderous bolts, and were struck with the utmost astonishment at what they beheld.
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