"A man!" "At your service, my dear," replied the jailer. Once or twice she commented upon it, but she knew that it was resultant of his fear of her impending departure. They were both dressed in every respect alike. She led him up the long hall solemnly. Papillon would have broken him down; anything tender would have sapped his will; and like as not he would have left the stool and rushed into the night. Moving back to the corner again, she ran a hand back over the leather-bound books—which, she realised, were not books at all. We leave England to-night. A man's laced hat,—whether adopted from the caprice of the moment, or habitually worn, we are unable to state,—cocked knowingly on her head, harmonized with her masculine appearance.
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