Moving swiftly to the end of the corridor, he pushed open a door at random and entered a large room, which looked to have been a saloon, judging from the faded gilt and crimson wall-paper, a mirror above the fireplace which was surrounded by an ornate gilded frame, now sadly tarnished, and a worn Chippendale sofa with striped upholstery and tasselled cushions. I am certainly no ghost. He might be unfortunate, but he would scarcely be a fool. “I’ll get a towel. Not entirely. “Perhaps,” he said, “I have been to blame. “A nice time of anxiety you’ve given me, young lady,” he said, as he entered the room. The eminent painter had handsome, expressive features, an aquiline nose, and a good deal of dignity in his manner. She looked at the suitcase sadly and stashed it underneath her bed. Jackson.
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