The young lady in the bureau said she would inquire, and Ann Veronica, while she affected to read the appeal on a hospital collecting-box upon the bureau counter, had a disagreeable sense of being surveyed from behind by a small, whiskered gentleman in a frock-coat, who came out of the inner office and into the hall among a number of equally observant green porters to look at her and her bags. It was a serene and charming evening, and twilight was gently stealing over the face of the country. The spy—if there was one hiding out in the late Jarvis Remenham’s empty house—would be taken unawares. That was the glorious if bewildering truth. Jack may be capable of much that is wicked, but he would never lift his hand against his friend,—of that I am assured. Women are hypocrites to the last—true only to themselves.
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