He flung himself backwards, hit the dais and fell heavily before the altar, losing his low-crowned beaver. Ascending the stairs, and conducting them along a sombre gallery, in which Trenchard noticed that every door was painted black, and numbered, he stopped at the entrance of a chamber; and, selecting a key from the bunch at his girdle, unlocked it. She laughed a little bitterly. He was safe, out of the beaten track, at last really comparable to the needle in the haystack. He drew her closer. On the mantelpiece in front of her was a note addressed to her in Annabel’s handwriting. “I’m six hundred and forty-eight, John, but guess how old I look? Fifteen. And yet I know not—for the object of his visit here to-night was to serve Jack, who, if your statement is correct, which I cannot however for a moment believe, does not deserve his assistance.
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