Grasping one of chairs about the little table, he drew it forward and sat astride it, in a fashion as insolent as it was unexpected. "Mur—der!" roared Wood, struggling to free himself from his assailant, by whom he was half strangled. “Is your husband here to-night?” he asked. " He drew down the lamp and blew it out, and followed her into the night, more lovely than he had ever imagined night to be. ” Her mind diverged to other aspects, and another type of womanhood. ‘Sergeant Trodger is who I am. Behind them stalked Blueskin, enveloped in a rough great-coat, called—appropriately enough in this instance,—a wrap-rascal. “Tell him to drive—anywhere,” she exclaimed.
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