Wood, with a message for Lady Trafford. Presently she was going through a swaying, noisy crowd, whose faces grinned and stared pitilessly in the light of the electric standards. " "Thank God for that!" cried Wood, heartily. She would end this sham with Manning. Consent to become my wife, and do not compel me to have recourse to violence to effect my purpose, and I will spare your son. This was the first young man who had drawn from her something more than speculative interest. “You silly fool,” he said. I have calculated my chances, you perceive. Fine woman, Lady Trafford—a little on the wane though. U. A remittance man. “Often,” he repeated, a little heavily.
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