For a few days he was able to relegate his conscience to the background. We are alone, Sir Rowland," he added, snuffing the candles, glancing cautiously around, and lowering his tone, "and what you confide to me shall never transpire,—at least to your disadvantage. He had pictured her, if indeed she had ever had the courage to do this thing, as sitting alone, convulsed with guilty fear, starting at her own shadow, a slave to constant terror. This man’s name is Montague Hill. “I was sick of the make-believe. " "To be sure! Nothing entertains me so much. "I understand," replied the stranger, unable to repress a smile.
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