" "Leave you!" echoed the ruffian, with a contemptuous laugh; "—not just yet. You will find proofs of the bloody deed in his room. He dragged it out, and perceiving, in spite of the decayed frame, that it was the body of Sir Rowland Trenchard, commanded his attendants to convey it up stairs—an order which was promptly obeyed. ‘Don’t dare call her that to my face. “We were good friends in Paris, weren’t we? You made me all sorts of promises, we planned no end of nice things, and then—without a word to any one you disappeared.
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