"Mur—der!" roared Wood, struggling to free himself from his assailant, by whom he was half strangled. She looked at him curiously. "Here is my purse; and I trust you will let me know to whom I am indebted for this important service. My name is Armytage—Lord Ernest Armytage. But a woman’s life is all chance. The world isn't real yet; she hasn't comparisons by which to govern her acts. It was only when they came into a square that daylight had a positive quality. Very well. The assassination, as you call it, was, obviously, the vengeance of a kinsman of the injured lady, who no doubt was of good family, upon her seducer. “Annabel!” He looked at her thoughtfully. Where was this kindly world she had drawn so rosily in fancy? Disillusion everywhere. .
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