A male voice, vibrant with terror, yelled out hoarsely. Kneebone helped to the pigeon-pie; while Thames unwired and uncorked a bottle of stout Carnarvonshire ale. His hand went to his pocket and extracted a neat silver-mounted pistol. “She has one, that’s why. It resembled Mardi Gras, and she thought disdainfully of New Orleans. Glad did I live and gladly die, And I laid me down with a will. ‘Whither away, mademoiselle?’ he said grimly, ungently grasping her arm above the elbow. “There is my aunt,” she said. "I'm glad to hear it, that's all," he added, taking out his snuff-box, his never-failing resource in such emergencies. “MY DEAR GIRL,— “I am so sorry if we made asses of ourselves to-night. He was all alone, like herself.
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