It must be the dawn creeping in. 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. She gurgled. His curiosity put itself into a question. Wood, meanwhile, had summoned his men-servants, and having armed them with such weapons as could be found, they proceeded to the garden, where the first object they encountered was Thames Darrell, extended on the ground, and weltering in his blood. “What’s that young lady’s name—girl in dark brown, stranger here?” Mr. ” “Wait,” she said.
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