By this time, the door was unlocked, and drawing his sword, Quilt entered the cell. CHAPTER XV. Yet her aunt, with a ringed hand flitting to her lips and a puzzled, worried look in her eyes, deaf to all this riot of warmth and flitting desire, was playing Patience—playing Patience, as if Dionysius and her curate had died together. She gathered stones to place upon the makeshift grave. The lady had disappeared. “You must leave me your address if you please,” he said, as she rose to go. “What were you doing outside Miss Pellissier’s flat to-night? You were looking at her windows. There he paused again, half turning his back and pretending to look for someone among the soldiers on the benches.
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