Her little white hand stole across the table. "Where shall I fly?" exclaimed the lady, bewildered with terror. She went past three keenly observant and ostentatiously preoccupied waiters down the thickcarpeted staircase and out of the Hotel Rococo, that remarkable laboratory of relationships, past a tall porter in blue and crimson, into a cool, clear night. There was—a service. Andrew's Church, his pursuers had gained the bridge, and the attention of such passengers as crowded the streets was attracted towards him by their vociferations. ‘Merely making a useful contact. I have come to you for sympathy, perhaps for help. But she was relentless. "Thank Heaven!" she gasped. His face was white. Think—think of that engagement!” Their talk had come to eloquent silences that contradicted all he had to say. At this moment, a door was opened below; lights gleamed on the walls; and the figures of Rowland and Sir Cecil were distinguished at the foot of the stairs. A faint anticipation of triumph showed in his manner and a subdued excitement. Between Canton and Hartford two giants had risen, invisible but menacing— Fear and Doubt.
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