He had scarcely completed his toilet, when he was startled by a noise at the door, and heard his own name pronounced in no friendly accents. He went over his interview with her again, their conversation at dinner-time. He was carelessly dressed, and there were marks of unrest upon his features. ‘Doesn’t she, Gerald?’ Gerald held up his hands. Yet he was in a state of hopeless bewilderment. Her back had stiffened, and her hazel eyes looked steadfastly ahead. Manning’s handwriting, and opened his letter and read some lines before its import appeared. Danger, in the form he apprehended, was lurking outside: nor was he destined to enjoy long repose. Her gaze flickered down to his pistol.
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