A momentary petrifaction, and terror had lent wings to her feet. " "For mercy's sake, go on!" cried Winifred. Her secret thoughts made some hasty, half-hearted excursions into the possibility of telling the thing in romantic tones—Ramage was as a black villain, she as a white, fantastically white, maiden. The expression was wholly different. Aware of the footman hovering, and the hackney coachman’s curious eyes looking down from his box, Gerald leaned a little towards her and spoke in a lowered tone. As she went on, the story began to sound more and more like a recitation. Perhaps the old fool was not as fanciful as they had thought. If the boy did not love the girl, why the devil had he dragged her into this marriage? Spurlock was a bit shaky bodily, but his brain was functioning clearly; and, it might be added, swiftly—as the brain always acts when confronted by a perplexing riddle.
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