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Stanley, produced a portrait from its hiding-place in the jewel-drawer under the mirror. ‘Oh, my God, she’s gone!’ Wrenching his hand from his friend’s slackened grasp, he darted for the door, Roding behind him. Crossing several fields, newly mown, or filled with lines of tedded hay, she arrived, not without great exertion, at the summit of a hill. Then—then we shall be together. A woman may choose any one for her lover, but for her friend she makes no mistake. I didn’t go out of my way or anything. ” “But there is not a shadow of evidence against you,” he objected. “I don’t see that his being a good sort matters.

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