That night, she hunted the alleyways of the old town. ‘Merci,’ Melusine said, and smiled. “He would never have found you out if you had not personated me. He was holding the ring to the light, and narrowly examining the inscription. “A new admirer, Annabel? But what has that to do with your going to England?” “Everything! He is Sir John Ferringhall—very stupid, very respectable, very egotistical. Laughed at me, then. He was a bad dog; he knew it perfectly; but where there was laughter, there was hope. She took up one of her father’s novels and put it down again, fretted up to her own room for some work, sat on her bed and meditated upon the room that she was now really abandoning forever, and returned at length with a stocking to darn. Wood was unable to discover the figure of the widow, but he recognised her dry, hacking cough, and was about to call her down, if she could not find the key, as he imagined must be the case, when a loud noise was heard, as though a chest, or some weighty substance, had fallen upon the floor.
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