"My horse is at the door, saddled, with pistols in the holsters,—mount him and fly. Somewhere you may stumble upon a clew to his identity. Indeed I must. A tinge of admiration rose in his breast. That's a queer yarn. The study seemed absolutely unaltered, there was still the same lamp with a little chip out of the shade, still the same gas fire, still the same bundle of blue and white papers, it seemed, with the same pink tape about them, at the elbow of the arm-chair, still the same father. Then his tiny bow mouth opened into an adoring smile. "Ay, murder him, if you like the term," returned Wild. She was no longer certain that she desired an Englishman, if she must judge of one in particular.
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