Maybe half a year, counting this summer. As she drew off her skirt she felt something in the pocket, and remembered the letter which the commissionaire at the Carlton had given her. ’ At that, a flush drenched her cheeks and she snatched her hand away. He thought of his severe attitude towards the girl who was rightly and with contempt refusing his measured help. She was the High Priestess. CHAPTER X. Her head ached with a hollow pain. But a woman’s life is all chance. Then the bridge had arched gateways, bristling with spikes, and garnished (as all ancient gateways ought to be) with the heads of traitors. .
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