On Monday Charvill had still not returned, and the major duly presented himself at Mrs Chalkney’s house in Grosvenor Square, thanking his stars that his friend Roding would not be there to spoil sport. The procession had just got into line of march, when a dreadful groan, mixed with yells, hootings, and execrations, was heard. What hotel should she go to? If she told a cabman to drive to an hotel, any hotel, what would he do—or say? He might drive to something dreadfully expensive, and not at all the quiet sort of thing she required. "Constance is yet living. "The pocket-book you prigged contained the letters I wanted. "His life—or yours?" "No one shall harm you more, my dear," cried Lady Trafford.
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