Arrived at the audience-chamber, he set down the light upon a stand, threw open the door, and announced in a loud voice, but with the perfect intonation of the person he represented,—"Sir Rowland Trenchard. He shot at me at the ‘Unusual,’ and the magistrates bound him over to keep the peace. I'll cable to-night, and in a few days we'll have some news. I have no right to love you. “This is the slavery of the veiled life. "I think I may trust him with you, Sir," added she, taking up the candle. She looked round wildly, as if seeking some source of help, as the boots halted at the front door and the shouting intensified.
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