"Yes, your son, Madam. His suspicions at first fell upon you. But, when the sound of the carriage-wheels died away, and he felt that she was actually gone, his resolution failed him, and he rang the bell violently. 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. They reached Wimbledon, and Ramage whipped out to hand Miss Stanley to the platform as though she had been a duchess, and she descended as though such attentions from middle-aged, but still gallant, merchants were a matter of course. "Leave me to my fate," rejoined Jack. There must be something we can do. En tout cas, why had he not returned? She pondered the question as, later, she paced about her favourite retreat. Pah! Damned Frenchified—’ ‘If you say again,’ threatened Melusine, moving to meet him like a jungle cat poised for the kill, ‘this scorn of a thing French, monsieur le baron, I shall be compelled to give you this apoplexy of which she speaks, madame. " "That he is," added Blueskin, approvingly. It isn’t illusions—for us. Don’t think it was anything better than fever—or a bit beautiful. . . " CHAPTER IX.
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