My only excuse is that I missed my way here, and I am leaving Paris early to-morrow morning. "My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve him!—is still living. Wearied at length with thinking on the past, and terrified by the prospect of the future, he threw himself on the straw with which the cage was littered, and endeavoured to compose himself to slumber. “I wonder,” she began, presently, “why I love you—and love you so much?. He trembled violently. What more was to be done? Frith’s investigations had proved fruitful, and the man was now keeping an eye on Valade. “Like a stab. ’ ‘Because I like you, of course,’ Gerald said promptly. “He does not come here,” she exclaimed, quickly.
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