If ever she felt fatigue in these long tramps which had already taken her half over London, she never admitted it. "It is the fiend!" she exclaimed, recoiling. Alone; not even the dog to warn her, and Hoddy deep in the island somewhere. The knots and broken pale that made the garden-fence scalable, and gave access to the fields behind, were still to be traced. "Who—who is the Marquis de Chatillon?" "Your adopted son, Thames Darrell," answered Winifred. ’ Then he bowed, raising his hat in salute and, crossing to the coach, spoke briefly to its driver and leapt into it without looking back. It made her hungry.
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