” The corners of her lips rose along with her eyebrows. For a space he rode the whirligig. He glanced at it, and saw the bloodied blade. ‘But that is easy. In Wych Street Owen Wood did dwell; A carpenter he was by trade, And money, I believe, he made. But the free arm of the stranger hit him a flail-like blow on the chest and sent him sprawling into the yielding sand. 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.
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