‘I thought it must be you,’ cried the woman. "Sir Cecil is no more. It will serve you out if I give her dagger back to mademoiselle, so that she can plunge it right into your chest. He was indeed still in the throes of his bewilderment. But it is my fault. The girl stood with her hands behind her back, sulky, resolute, and intelligent, a strand of her black hair over one eye and looking more than usually delicate-featured, and more than ever like an obdurate child. Her head ached with a hollow pain. The Northern Ocean keeps a secret better than the Thames, Sir Rowland.
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