"Some dreadful deed is about to be committed, which I may perhaps prevent," muttered Jack to himself. She could not bear the shame of 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. "A thousand pounds," he observed, gloomily, "is a heavy price to pay for doubtful secrecy, when certain silence might be so cheaply procured. ‘What Frenchman would that be, missie? We ain’t let no one escape. ” “Some little tiff?” “No; but I don’t think I shall see them.
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