“I have spoken too many truths to-night. Gerald stood quite still for a moment or two, listening intently. He groped her buttocks. Nigel, you have not forgotten!” “No,” he said, with a little bitter smile. Her blood spurted into his mouth and he drank. It was an awful moment—so awful, that every other feeling except deep interest in the scene seemed suspended. ‘I’m following a scent. ‘Dare I suppose that to be of her making?’ Gerald flushed. It was precisely two o'clock on the morning of Whit-monday, the 25th of May 1724, when the remarkable escape before detailed was completed: and, though it wanted full two hours to daybreak, the glimmer of a waning moon prevented it from being totally dark.
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