‘Indeed?’ Gerald said politely. The cell in which she was confined was about six feet long and four wide; the walls were scored all over with fantastic designs, snatches of poetry, short sentences and names,—the work of its former occupants, and of its present inmate. But, urged by his wife's cries, who was more anxious for the preservation of her child's life than her own, he snatched up the infant, and made his escape from the back of the premises. "These writer chaps are queer birds. I was born of one Suzanne Valade and an Englishman, Nicholas Charvill. In a moment they were in the street outside. "You're not hurt I hope, Sir Rowland?" inquired this individual. " The doctor sent her a sharp, quizzical glance. ‘Well said, my dear.
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