Upon a table, where they had been hastily deposited, on the intelligence of Darrell's accident, lay a pair of pink kid gloves, bordered with lace, and an enormous fan; the latter, when opened, represented the metamorphosis and death of Actæon. He smiled complacently. On examining the door, he found it secured by a large rusty lock, which he endeavoured to pick with the nail he had just acquired; but all his efforts proving ineffectual, he removed the plate that covered it with the bar, and with his fingers contrived to draw back the bolt. It is I who am persecuted by the man who calls himself your husband. And meanwhile, we’ll just have these no doubt potentially lethal little claws of yours out of harm’s way. I'm sorry. The man turned at the exclamation, and so did several of the bystanders; but they could not make out who had uttered it. He made a quick movement towards her, but she did not flinch. She fluttered it with a trembling hand, averting her eyes from his, and he could hear her uneven breath behind it.
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