” Chapter XXV THE STEEL EDGE OF THE TRUTH The manservant, with his plain black clothes and black tie, had entered the room with a deferential little gesture. He appeared to be strangely uncommunicative, though I tried to draw him out. Dear me, what a difference it has made! No one would ever think that we were sisters. Your old rooms are there, if you choose. His features were regular, and finely-formed; his complexion bright and blooming,—a little shaded, however, by travel and exposure to the sun; and, with a praiseworthy contempt for the universal and preposterous fashion then prevailing, of substituting a peruke for the natural covering of the head, he allowed his own dark-brown hair to fall over his shoulders in ringlets as luxuriant as those that distinguished the court gallant in Charles the Second's days—a fashion, which we do not despair of seeing revived in our own days. He made his speech a little elaborately. "My name is Kneebone," added the portly personage, stepping forward. Suppose our proper place is a shrine. ‘Alors, now I am also a murderer.
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