His cheeks were puffy, and his eyes blood-shot. Her prevailing effect was one of quiet and complete assurance, as though she knew all about everything, and was only restrained by her instinctive delicacy from telling what she knew. He folded the garments carefully and replaced them on the chair. He was no Hoddy, but a tremendous man, with hairy arms and bearded face and drink-shattered intellect. Supposing she saw the young man at dinner that night, emptying his bottle? She could not go to him, sit down and draw the sordid pictures she had seen so often. Blood dripped down one side of her forehead. On the other a wretched engraving of the Chevalier de Saint George, or, as he was styled in the label attached to the portrait, James the Third, raised a suspicion that the inmate of the house was not altogether free from some tincture of Jacobitism. . CHAPTER IV.
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