"What of her?" cried the knight. She recognized the face but could not quite place it. It's fortunate we've no more Jack Sheppards, or I should stand but a poor chance. Wood, in deploring his wild career, adverted to the melancholy condition to which it had reduced his mother. Hidden menace; a prescience of something dreadful about to happen. For the present, he murmured his farewells, and turning, caught Hilary’s eye and walked away, crossing the ballroom to move into the less opulent, and less crowded, saloon next door where servants were dispensing refreshments.
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