" "My God!" cried Trenchard, stunned by the intelligence, "I have killed her. “You were talking to that fellow Ramage to-day—in the Avenue. "I shall state my suspicions to the governor. ’ ‘So you think she is an émigré?’ Lucilla put in before the incensed Roding could respond. He drew out the check and the editorial letter. How fortunate that she recognises the resemblance. “Vee!” said Miss Stanley, “you hear what your father says!” Miss Stanley struggled with emotion. “Is that not rather a profitless speculation, my friend?” He seemed deaf to her interruption. She began to weep in long, aching sobs. "Mercy on us!" cried he, as a thrill of apprehension ran through his frame. The road from Surbiton and Epsom ran under the arch, and, like a bright fungoid growth in the ditch, there was now appearing a sort of fourth estate of little redand-white rough-cast villas, with meretricious gables and very brassy windowblinds. “My dear friend,” she laughed, “not so tragic, if you please. He had reacted by pushing her away, disgust and frustration on his face. \" Now it was Michelle’s turn to laugh.
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