‘This is not a place for a man. Your laugh reminds me of—of——" "Whose, Sir?" demanded Jackson, becoming suddenly grave. A snarl contorted his features, and he marched up to it, laying his pistol down on the marquetry table so that his hands were free to grab the picture off the wall. But though the breach was large enough to admit him below, he could not squeeze his bulky person through the aperture into the Red Room. As he turned the handle, it moved, and the door was taken from his hand and pulled outward by the young footman. Hurt beyond what he could imagine by the selfishness and pride of her forbears, whose fateful disputes had robbed her of the life she should have led, the plucky little devil had taken matters into her own hands. “You’ll be there, right?” She asked, hearing his breathing audibly jump.
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