‘I’ve finished me report, sir,’ Trodger said aggrievedly. Somebody may be on the watch—perhaps, that old ginger-hackled Jew. To-night there seemed to be a new brilliancy in her eyes, a deeper quality in her tone. ‘Who is to be angry with you now?’ ‘Miss Prudence, that’s who,’ stated Joan bluntly. But at length, there was a click, and with a swish, the panel of painted books swung outward from the wall. They are mine! They were sent to ‘Alcide’ not to you. That’s what I mean. My only excuse is that I missed my way here, and I am leaving Paris early to-morrow morning. He then mounted the jaded hack, which had long since regained its legs, and was quietly browsing the grass at the road-side, and, striking spurs into its side, rode off. "Done!" cried Shotbolt. .
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