She was looking anxiously at the entrance to the restaurant. A distant suggestion of chalets and a glimpse of the road set them talking for a time of the world they had left behind. “I’ve been following you for many years. "You are no longer Thames Darrell," she said, casting her eyes rapidly over it; "but the Marquis de Chatillon. And I passed myself off as Meysey Hill, and since—then—I haven’t had a minute’s peace. " "It came from Lady Trafford's jewel-box.
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