By the time he had reached the summit of this hill, he had lost all trace of them; and the ardour of the chase having in some measure subsided, he began to reproach himself for his folly, in having wandered—as he conceived—so far out of his course. “I MUST speak to you,” he said. ’ He became aware of his friend’s face before him. She had known that Remenham House would be deserted, for Martha—released, as she had carefully explained to her charge, by her vows to God from servitude and obedience to Nicholas Charvill, a mere mortal—had begun a correspondence with a friend of her youth, Mrs Joan Ibstock, née Pottiswick. Everywhere else—the law, medicine, the Stock Exchange—prejudice bars us. That was one of the mysterious qualities of this child of the lagoon: she had always at instant service that Oriental mask of impenetrable calm that no Occidental trick could dislodge. He had now reached what was called the Lower Leads,—a flat, covering a part of the prison contiguous to the gateway, and surrounded on all sides by walls about fourteen feet high. Abruptly would come the end. The cork came out with a loud pop, and Anna could not help wondering how it must sound to the patient little crowd outside. “I have made no progress with my work,” she said slowly, “and the money was gone.
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