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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. Arrived there, their first object was to seek out Davies, by whom they were conducted to the lady's retreat,—a lone habitation, situated on the outskirts of Saint George's Fields in Southwark. “You were really at Moulton House,” she exclaimed penitently. ‘Parbleu, but I find that this is excessively clever, this passage. If you don’t think it would be a social outrage, perhaps I might walk with you to your railway station. Too damned chickenhearted to confess to me he’d run off with the woman. She had to resist an impulse of sheer terror, to run out after them and give in.
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