"Woman, your wits are fled!" And so it seemed; for all the answer she could make was to murmur distractedly, "I can't find the key. I am too weak to aid you. Bravo!—the best cly-faker of 'em all couldn't have done it better. “Where were you?” He inquired, rubbing her shoulders. But her cries, instead of moving her assailant's compassion, only added to his fury. Before she put on her sun-helmet, she paused before the mirror. Her complexion was wan and faded, except where it was tinged by a slight hectic flush, that made the want of colour more palpable; her eyes were large and black, but heavy and lustreless; her cheeks sunken; her frame emaciated; her dark hair thickly scattered with gray. "There, he's as safe as Jack Sheppard in the Condemned Hould," laughed the man. “I am afraid that you are making a mistake. You, sir,” he added, turning to Brendon, “had better take my card round to the police station in Werner Street and ask that Detective Dorling be sent round here at once on urgent business.
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