"Who—who is the Marquis de Chatillon?" "Your adopted son, Thames Darrell," answered Winifred. "Out of a family album, you said," Angelina reminded her sister. “You met no one upon the stairs, or saw no one leave the flats?” “No one,” Anna answered firmly. The major himself told me that this secret passage started upstairs. She was dressed in a tattered black stuff gown, discoloured by various stains, and intended, it would seem, from the remnants of rusty crape with which it was here and there tricked out, to represent the garb of widowhood, and held in her arms a sleeping infant, swathed in the folds of a linsey-woolsey shawl. " "But Wild still lives," cried Wood. ‘Speak, then.
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