She made an abrupt personal appeal. I feel like a fraudulent trustee. She was the High Priestess. Nor is Theresa, or even Thérèse. I wanted the time with you. But he was a thief, a fugitive from justice. She was supposed to be reading at home, and after breakfast she strolled into the vegetable garden, and having taken up a position upon the staging of a disused greenhouse that had the double advantage of being hidden from the windows of the house and secure from the sudden appearance of any one, she resumed the reading of Mr. Sepulchre's bell is for ever ringing in my ears—oh!" "If that's the case," observed Wood, "I'm surprised you should like to have such a frightful picture constantly in view as that over the chimney-piece.
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