A slow horror was dawning in his fixed eyes. "I'll place it to your account, Sir Rowland," answered the thief-taker, smiling significantly. Lucy crouched by the side of the grave, her head in her hands, rocking back and forth. And yet, often when alone, he wondered: had McClintock been wrong, or had she ceased to care in that way? The possibility that she no longer cared should have filled him with unalloyed happiness, whereas it depressed him, cut the natural vanity of youth into shreds and tatters. ’ ‘Who is that?’ demanded Lucilla eagerly.
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