"Is this Misther Wudd's, my pretty miss?" demanded the rough voice of the Irish watchman. “I saw him stagger and sink down, and the pistol was smoking still in my hand. As she looked in this direction, the thief-taker raised his eyes—those gray, blood-thirsty eyes!—their glare froze the life-blood in her veins. A woman touched him lightly on the arm, and smiled into his face. “I suppose you’ll come to the point soon—if there is one. ‘Good, good—and not before time,’ muttered Roding, glancing round again. After all, what can it matter? It was just to make sure. We are amiable to one another, but we don’t mix. ‘But do you think I can blame you for this, Marthe?’ ‘I blame myself.
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