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“I was half hoping that I might be allowed to see you home. Lady Ferringhall listened, and her cheeks grew pale. To-morrow I am going to Paris. Her fingers rested upon his. No, let us dine here, and then go and have our coffee on the boulevards. We are alone, Sir Rowland," he added, snuffing the candles, glancing cautiously around, and lowering his tone, "and what you confide to me shall never transpire,—at least to your disadvantage. " "Are you friendly toward him?" asked McClintock, passing a fine cigar across the table. It was a motor accident—a fatal motor accident the evening papers called it. But at the word “home” she turned again. Her father’s step quickened to a trot.
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