She shrugged her shoulders. Her husband stared at her over the candle flame. When she came to, she was lying with her head in Martha’s lap, and a livid bruise was forming at the point of a raging headache. She missed them already. “What made you marry him? What made you leave Paris without a word to any one? What made you and your sister exchange identities?” “There is one answer to all those questions, Nigel,” she said, with a nervous little shudder. “Well anyhow—I don’t see the force of your objection, you know. Dorling said. Where can we sit down and talk?” He led her across the room towards a window recess, in which a tall, fair young man was seated with an evening paper in his hand. "We shall see. But here the resemblance stopped. “He is Annabel’s husband,” she reminded him. "Shall I shoot him?" "Yes! yes! put it to his ear!" cried Mrs. No gentleman was ever called Thames, and Darrell is a gentleman, unless the whole story of his being found in the river is a fabrication!" "My dear, you forget—" "No, Mr.
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