Kneebone's house, the young man hastened to a hotel in the neighbourhood of Covent Garden, where, having procured a horse, he shaped his course towards the west end of the town. Half the rooms empty. She inhaled a deep breath of air—London air. Her English was halting. If she could not marry him, she would not marry any one. "I'm tired of the life I'm leading. Afraid, no doubt, he thought grimly, that her other visitor would leave. Strange, demure-looking young woman, with wonderful complexion and eyes, and a style about her, too. He was not particularly grateful for the present situation. Forgetting the dark thoughts of his last brush with the girl, he dropped the dagger back in his pocket, quickened his pace, and went back into the house to look for his hostess.
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