He fancied that the whole fabric of the bridge was cracking over head,—that the arch was tumbling upon him,—that the torrent was swelling around him, whirling him off, and about to bury him in the deafening abyss. The real tragedy—which he sensed and toward which he was always reaching—eluded all his verbal skill. Gerald tried it. " "Who are you?" ejaculated Trenchard, scarcely able to credit his senses. Five minutes ago, his butler had entered the green saloon, an austere apartment, with dark forest-green wallpaper flocked with a swirling design, and heavy mahogany furniture. 6. ‘I see well that I am dealing with you. "I was only commenting.
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