There was nothing in his manner to suggest the misery of the preceding night. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. No further responsibility whatever. She did not wait, but grabbed up the lantern and slid into the passage, calling to them to hurry. And I think also that Gosse—I mean that one who calls himself Valade—stole it. But I do think that if a girl is to feel comfortable about it they should start fairly equal. She drew up a chair and sat down, putting her palm on the damp, cold forehead. “You are an impostor. The locket contained the face of her mother—all the family album she had. Her figure was, in some measure, hidden by a large scarf, and a deep hood drawn over the head contributed to her disguise; still it was evident, from her lofty bearing, that she had nothing in common, except an interest in their proceedings, with the crew by whom she was surrounded.
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