Over the mantel, set into an ornately carved panel with fluted columns at each end, was a portrait of a man on horseback. He fancied that the whole fabric of the bridge was cracking over head,—that the arch was tumbling upon him,—that the torrent was swelling around him, whirling him off, and about to bury him in the deafening abyss. The necessity of defending herself and assuming a confident and secure tone did much to dispell the sense of being exposed and indefensible in a huge dingy world that abounded in sinister possibilities. “Of course you don’t. The poor fellow's half smothered. In Hamilton Place that is, like I told you before, miss. Why don’t I just go and get the key from Pottiswick?’ Alderley flicked a glance back at him over his shoulder.
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