The person, shortly afterwards ushered into the room, seemed by the imperfect light,—for the evening was advancing, and the chamber darkened by heavy drapery,—to be a middle-sized middle-aged man, of rather vulgar appearance, but with a very shrewd aspect. At Boulogne they took train to Basle; next morning they breakfasted together in the buffet of that station, and thence they caught the Interlaken express, and so went by way of Spies to Frutigen. On approaching the couch, they found Sir Rowland senseless, and extended over the dead body of his unfortunate sister. "It's a great world," was the manager's greeting. Doubts began to rise up all about her, plucking at her confidence. Wood, you shan't lord it over me, I can promise you.
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