"Vill this do?" demanded the constable, taking the candle from the lantern, the better to display the narrow limits of the hole. It was a motor accident—a fatal motor accident the evening papers called it. "His life—or yours?" "No one shall harm you more, my dear," cried Lady Trafford. ‘Very. "To-night, your ladyship?" ventured an elderly domestic. Go easy. " "Don't worry about that. ‘So it was. "That's for myself," rejoined Mrs. "It is her child!" shrieked Rowland, in a voice heard above the howling of the tempest, "risen from this roaring abyss to torment me. “The Miss Pellissier who was at White’s with us.
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