It was not until the morning of the fifth day that the constant vigil was broken. The sing-song girl rose and meekly pattered out of the office into the night. “Don’t they look like a pair of young lovers sleeping off a tryst?” He observed. Particularly when it was obvious the fellow was one of these pitiful wretches weak enough to allow themselves to be ousted from their inheritances and thus obliged to come seeking succour of their neighbours. The lips of the mask twisted upward into a smile. He was alert, well-groomed, and yet—perhaps in contrast with the more volatile French type—there was a suggestion of weight about him, not to say heaviness.
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