" "Then it was not a dream!" ejaculated Sir Rowland in a hollow voice, and as if speaking to himself. There was something very wrong. Having accomplished his intent, Gerald let the lad go and had himself driven back to Stratton Street. Even her memories of he who had frequented her life for the longest period of years were worn and fading. “Annabel! God in Heaven, it is Annabel!” She did not speak. Had he come to see her to find if she needed something? No. Pramlay received them in the pretty chintz drawing-room, which opened by French windows on the trim garden, with its croquet lawn, its tennis-net in the middle distance, and its remote rose alley lined with smart dahlias and flaming sunflowers. "Oh!—to see you thus!" cried Thames, in an agony of affliction. He flung open the door and cast a quick glance round. Spurlock bent his head to the rail.
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