At one time, she determined to go to Wych Street, and ask Mr. “Is that so? Who says?” He demanded, his eyebrows arching as he looked at her with puerile glee. Some one had once, in his hearing, called him a prig. ” “That is another French custom,” he remarked, “which is not so agreeable. ‘You heard Gosse—I mean, the man you know as Valade?’ ‘Clear as day, miss,’ he uttered. "Put your arms about me. There was hope for me then. “Neither you nor I, Nigel, are made of such stuff,” she answered. 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. Three short days. Wood will be here presently. Unconscious that his movements were watched, Shotbolt, meanwhile, hastened towards Wych Street.
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