What matters it? My servant, he is wounded—and by a Frenchman, if you wish to make an arrest. ‘Oh, the Frenchie. ” She paused again. When first brought under consideration, she was a miserable and forlorn object; squalid in attire, haggard in looks, and emaciated in frame. “Why—it’s—it’s you!” Amazement seemed to dry up the torrents of his speech. If he dies she is safe. She got up, drew up her blind, and stared out of window at a dawn-cold vision of chimneys for a time, and then went and sat on the edge of her bed.
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