She listened, listened intently for several minutes. ‘From the convent, where else?’ ‘It does not strike me that you can possibly have been in a convent. ‘You are the one that I have met in London. A black-garbed young lad leapt out and let down the steps. He went more easily this time. Not a word was uttered by the assemblage; but a hush of expectation reigned throughout. Did he see him, this Monsieur Charvill?’ ‘I don’t rightly know, miss,’ confessed Kimble. Her companion was a portly handsome man, also dressed in a full suit of the deepest mourning, with the finest of lace at his bosom and wrists, and a sword in a black sheath by his side. He did not pocket it, but sat hefting it lightly from hand to hand, watching the girl thoughtfully. The occasion is worth a dash of the grape, lad. “Quite different. “No I’m not, John. ” Her mind drifted into a speculation about her sister. It was precious for two reasons: it was the photograph of her beautiful mother whom she could not remember, and it would identify her to the aunt in Hartford. .
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