A shout was heard at a little distance, and, the next moment, a person rushed with breathless haste to the stair-head. He wanted to put on his overcoat and come after you and look for you—in London. “Dear John,” she whispered. Lucy felt herself go very red in the cheeks and lowered her hand rather slowly. Valade, who was standing by her chair, glancing around the packed pink-papered saloon with a heavy frown on his face, was a thickset man of coarse, reddened feature, with a discontented air. . A new restlessness seemed to have stolen in upon her.
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