SHOOH!” “That’s no reason,” said Ann Veronica, speaking through her handkerchief and stopping abruptly. Passing the old rectory, and still older church, with its reverend screen of trees, and slowly ascending a hill side, from whence he obtained enchanting peeps of the spire and college of Harrow, he reached the cluster of well-built houses which constitute the village of Neasdon. Immediately he grasped the fact that there was drama here, probably the old drama of the fugitive. Standing before a mirror set on a dresser between the windows, two hands frozen in the act of adjusting a wide-brimmed hat on her head, stood a lady in a dark riding habit, her startled features turned towards the door. McClintock, striking a match to relight his cigar, broke the spell.
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