“Great Scott!” he exclaimed huskily. His countenance was pale as death, but not a muscle quivered; nor did he betray the slightest appearance of fear. The hansom sped through the crowded streets. “What has he to do with it?” “He was your sister’s master—her friend. Yet the smoke was curling upwards in a faint innocent-looking cloud to the ceiling. By the side of her plate was a small key. The spirit I drink may be poison,—it may kill me,—perhaps it is killing me:—but so would hunger, cold, misery,—so would my own thoughts. Every inch of the house felt safe to her, small and welcoming. Had he been listening inside? ‘What is amiss?’ ‘That Frenchie, sir.
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