I thought—the papers said——” “You thought that I was dead,” he interrupted. Her cheeks seemed to burn, her veins ran riot, and her heart was beating so fast that she was sure he must feel it through his scarlet coat. They flash to and fro, they thrill us with expectancy. His hand went with an almost instinctive inquiry to his jawbone again. She had lost her nerve, and there was no more freedom in London for her that night. He dragged it out, and perceiving, in spite of the decayed frame, that it was the body of Sir Rowland Trenchard, commanded his attendants to convey it up stairs—an order which was promptly obeyed.
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