"It was the story of a man, so to speak, who had left his vitals in his native land and wandered strange paths emptily. "Was that thunder?" he faltered, as a terrible clap was heard overhead. As she drew off her skirt she felt something in the pocket, and remembered the letter which the commissionaire at the Carlton had given her. The Old Mint. The steps, even the pavements, were invaded by little knots of loungers driven outside by the unusual heat of the evening, most of them in evening dress, or what passed for evening dress in Montague Street. The room was intimate and wonderful to her with its shadows now cast over the girlish menagerie of stuffed animals. When Jack entered the cell, she was talking to herself in the muttering unconnected way peculiar to her distracted condition; but, after her eye had rested on him some time, the fixed expression of her features relaxed, and a smile crossed them. When were you last confessed, Sir Rowland?" he added abruptly.
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