What he intended to do with it is of little consequence now. Stanley, standing on the hearthrug with his back to the unlit gas-fire. But I don't look for peace on this side the grave. He dragged it out, and perceiving, in spite of the decayed frame, that it was the body of Sir Rowland Trenchard, commanded his attendants to convey it up stairs—an order which was promptly obeyed. “Great!” Cathy squealed. As she did so, the ruffles to the jacket of her riding habit fell away, exposing livid blue bruises about her wrist, ugly in the light of day from the window at their back. “I saw him stagger and sink down, and the pistol was smoking still in my hand.
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