With a cry of triumph, he rose, the sword hilt grasped in his fingers, the point swishing up towards her. "His life—or yours?" "No one shall harm you more, my dear," cried Lady Trafford. During the previous night he had been restless; and in the lonely dragging hours his thoughts had raced in an endless circle—action without progress. “I believe you are quite right so far as regards the present, at any rate,” someone remarked, from the depths of an easy chair. Bah! She does not know me very well, and you—not at all. He lunched in the Legal Club in Chancery Lane, and met Ogilvy.
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