It was in the quiet streets and squares toward Oxford Street that it first came into her head disagreeably that she herself was being followed. You remember that you saw us at the Savoy a few evenings ago?” “Yes. " "Not unless your skull's bullet-proof," cried a voice at his elbow; and, as the words were uttered, a pistol was snapped at his head, which,—fortunately or unfortunately, as the reader pleases,—only burnt the priming. ” Her reverie broke, and she found herself still in front of the looking glass, a barrette hanging loosely from her hair.
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