Having disposed of his steed and swallowed a glass of brandy, without taking any other refreshment, he threw himself on a couch, where he sank at once into a heavy slumber. ‘Do you not understand that I can trust no one—no one?’ ‘That is a pity,’ Gerald said, rising to face her. ‘What, is Nicholas dead?’ He saw the two of them exchange glances and an instinct of danger rose up. So perfect was the illusion, that he could almost fancy he heard the solemn voice of the ordinary warning him that his race was nearly run, and imploring him to prepare for eternity. Vitally, she had the letter that proved her identity as a Charvill: the one her father had written to the Abbess when he sent her to the convent. She touched bow to strings, playing a fifth. What had Brewis Charvill to say to that, Gerald?’ ‘He had nothing to say to it. “Rhea will return soon.
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