” The conversation hung. Then light footsteps became audible, descending the staircase with a certain deliberation and a faint rustle of skirts. I want to leave Paris to-day. ” “And you can’t?” “I don’t think I ought to control myself. You came to see me in the hospital. "My mother,—my poor mother!" exclaimed Jack. As she drew off her skirt she felt something in the pocket, and remembered the letter which the commissionaire at the Carlton had given her. What would happen to her? Would her soul be shaken, twisted, hypnotized?—as it had been those other times? Music—that took out of her the sense of reality, whirled her into the clouds, that gave to her will the directless energy of a chip of wood on stormy waters. Jack Sheppard warns Thames Darrell 284 VIII.
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