A few feet away, across the low vases of pink and white roses, sat Annabel, more beautiful to-night perhaps than ever before in her life. “Gods,” she said, at last, “I’ve done it this time!” “Well!” She took up the neat morocco purse, opened it, and examined the contents. The thin stream of blood on which her eyes were fastened with a nameless horror reached almost to her feet. Give way, and let us render what assistance we can to the poor wretch. Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved. They were horrible people. " "You may spare me your compassion, friend," observed Thames; "I am falsely detained.
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