"And now," he continued, sternly, "was it your master who has just ridden by?" "No," answered Quilt, sullenly. Annabel had taken her life into her hands with gay insouciance, had made her own friends, gone her own way. "Take it," cried Wood, holding the infant towards her; "take it, and fly. "Yes, Auntie! And to date you have cost me precisely sixteen thousand dollars— hard earned, every one of them. She trailed him to his apartment and a black door that read 727 in solemn gold-tone lettering. The door was closed— locked,—and the pair were heard descending the stairs. "Who's there?—Pshaw! it's only the wind. It was the last thing she felt like drinking. "Write as I dictate," he cried, placing a pen in the jailer's hand and a pistol to his ear.
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