‘Melusine, if you don’t let go my hand—’ He broke off as she dragged a pocket handkerchief from her sleeve. She spent a very disagreeable afternoon and evening—it was raining fast outside, and she had very unwisely left her soundest pair of boots in the boothole of her father’s house in Morningside Park—thinking over the economic situation and planning a course of action. “I have always,” she admitted calmly, “taken a certain amount of interest in Annabel’s future. He panted for a moment with unuttered replies, and then, with a scornful gesture, got up and left the cell. Time wore on somewhat slowly with the prisoner, who had to control his impatience in the best way he could; but as the shades of evening were darkening, the door was unlocked, and Mr. F. Vorsack looked pale and pink. CHAPTER II.
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