From his wallet he brought forth a yellow letter. But she did not know what he knew, that it would always be rolling up, enlivened by suggestion, no matter how trifling. It was from Brendon. A few words passed between him and the thief-taker as the latter came up; after which, all the party—with the exception of Quilt, who was left on shore —embarked within the wherry, which was pushed from the strand and rowed swiftly along the stream—for the tide was in its favour—by a couple of watermen. He beamed a little as she disappeared into the orchestra room, a cacophony of tuning instruments. He remembered little whispered speeches of hers, so like the Annabel of Paris, so unlike the woman he loved, a hundred little things should have told him long ago. Ah! how I wish, poor dear Sir Cecil were alive! he'd keep him in order. And many of these deaths could be avoided if it were not for superstition.
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