The stairs creaked as Mark rushed down them. Her companion was a portly handsome man, also dressed in a full suit of the deepest mourning, with the finest of lace at his bosom and wrists, and a sword in a black sheath by his side. “Yes. “I’ve plenty of pals,” he said, “who, when they’ve been doing Paris on the Q. Impassive by nature and training, he was conscious to-night of a strange sense of excitement, of exhilaration tempered by a dull background of disappointment. While I am talking about your friends, I feel—I think you ought to know how I look at it. CHAPTER XI.
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