To have written a short story in a week was rather a remarkable feat. " "Are you man, or fiend?" exclaimed Trenchard, staring at the stranger, as he concluded his narration. The child was now within reach; and, in another moment, he would have executed his deadly purpose, if an arm from behind had not felled him to the ground. But it means no end of a row. Remember! not a word!" So saying, he huddled the mantle over Wood's shoulders, dashed the lantern to the ground, and extinguished the light. And his scarlet coat had nothing to do with it, as Hilary was fond of recounting, for he had been in civilian clothes when they met, as he was tonight. Yet the smoke was curling upwards in a faint innocent-looking cloud to the ceiling.
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