A brief feeling of empathy with Pottiswick passed through him. ‘You were his daughter. The struggles of the wounded man were desperate—so desperate, that in his agony he overset the table, and, in the confusion, tore off the cloth, and disclosed a face horribly mutilated, and streaming with blood. He had almost forced himself upon her one night after a particularly bloody raid of a thatched cottage. “Your friend, “DAVID COURTLAW. ‘You see,’ he pursued blandly, ‘I lead a life of the most intolerable boredom. ‘Well said, my dear. She spotted her opportunity.
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