"This gash," he added, pointing to one of the larger scars, "was a wipe from the hanger of Tom Thurland, whom I apprehended for the murder of Mrs. “Not a bit of it,” he said; “it’s only a score in a game. “I heard the clock strike as I crossed the square,” she answered. ’ ‘Oh, that tragic pair,’ uttered her ladyship in saddened tones. “But don’t you know about me?” he said at last. ’ He nodded in the direction of her pistol. Then his tiny bow mouth opened into an adoring smile. There were some deepseated fears of the rot spreading to England, if the simmering discontent of the peasantry of France were to erupt any further. But it is my fault. CHAPTER XVIII. ” He smiled at her.
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