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And, as usual,” she continued, a little bitterly, “I seem to have been sent along with the dullest and least edifying of Mrs. Tristan dying and Isolde coming to crown his death. I want to leave Paris to-day. What they do with him afterward is off my ticket, no concern of James Boyle; they can lock him up or let him go. “Don’t you understand? It is I whom you cared for in Paris, not Anna. As he gazed down into the courts of the prison, he could not help shuddering, lest a false step might precipitate him below. For all the enervating heat, he applied himself vigorously to his tasks. Spurlock remained where he was until the sail became an infinitesimal speck in the distance. Suddenly Anna felt her hand seized and imprisoned in Courtlaw’s burning fingers.
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