It was just upon the stroke of nine as he entered the Lodge, and Mr. Let me bind you up, and then you can attend to her. "Gracious Heaven!—is she the inmate of a mad-house?" "She is, Sir," answered the woollen-draper, sadly, "driven there by her son's misconduct. ‘I’ll make you an offer. You have not forgotten——” “I have forgotten nothing?” he answered, enigmatically. Stop it. She wore a plain black dress, reaching almost to her throat—her small oval face, with the large brown eyes, was colourless, delicately expressive, yet with something mysterious in its Sphinx-like immobility.
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