“Will you come this way,” she said, “into the drawing-room? There is no one there just now. She was by his side. Opening the trap-door, he then descended to the vaults —searched each cell, and every nook and corner separately. She drew up a chair and sat down, putting her palm on the damp, cold forehead. The road from Surbiton and Epsom ran under the arch, and, like a bright fungoid growth in the ditch, there was now appearing a sort of fourth estate of little redand-white rough-cast villas, with meretricious gables and very brassy windowblinds.
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