“Let go!” she gasped at him, a blaze of anger. " "Who are you!" demanded the fugitive, sternly. He remembered little whispered speeches of hers, so like the Annabel of Paris, so unlike the woman he loved, a hundred little things should have told him long ago. In a moment or two, Madame Valade recovered her sangfroid. “You can’t imagine,” Sydney exclaimed, “that the people downstairs will be such drivelling asses as to believe piffle like that. And you need not fear that I shall not give back the sword when I have finished using it. Something seemed awry. “So Mr.
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