“You are not going out—this evening, I trust,” that lady asked, a trifle dismayed. Hey. . He would have to make sure of her silence. Manning. It had been her father’s surname, and it had sounded far more innocuous and American than Iovelli. The vestry was perhaps the only room in the place, except her allotted curtained off portion of the dormitory chamber that served for her cell—and she could not scandalise the nuns by having a man in there, be he never so much a servant—where Melusine could be sure of privacy. It was Sunday evening—a soft delicious evening, and, from the happy, cheerful look of the house, none would have dreamed of the dismal tragedy so lately acted within its walls. “Showtime!” Martin cried.
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