“You will not even answer my letters. Decidedly this was imbecile. ” “Oh!” he said, in a colorless tone, and with his eyes on her face. “There is something to be said for the lady-like theory after all,” she admitted. "The key," replied the widow. I'll forgive him if he does. He dragged it out, and perceiving, in spite of the decayed frame, that it was the body of Sir Rowland Trenchard, commanded his attendants to convey it up stairs—an order which was promptly obeyed. Behind the poet came Sir James Thornhill. "Quilt Arnold, is that you?" "It is, Sir," sputtered the janizary. Five minutes ago, his butler had entered the green saloon, an austere apartment, with dark forest-green wallpaper flocked with a swirling design, and heavy mahogany furniture. Wood was unable to discover the figure of the widow, but he recognised her dry, hacking cough, and was about to call her down, if she could not find the key, as he imagined must be the case, when a loud noise was heard, as though a chest, or some weighty substance, had fallen upon the floor. Glancing idly up at her own window as they had swung round the corner she had seen a strange thing.
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