"Here's one of the thieves, Sir Rowland!" cried the attendant. But it was of vital importance to Melusine, and Gerald felt he must pursue it. With this view he struck off into a narrow street on the left, and soon entered a small alehouse, over the door of which hung the sign of the "Welsh Trumpeter. “Oh my God, what if she’s dead?” More giggling. His tone changed, becoming a little more moderate. It was high afternoon, there was no great throng of footpassengers, and many an eye from omnibus and pavement rested gratefully on her fresh, trim presence as she passed young and erect, with the light of determination shining through the quiet self-possession of her face. Brendon. CHAPTER II.
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