The girl was pretty, and apparently a lady. "My name is Darrell," said the fugitive hastily. She carried herself well, whereas her brother slouched, and there was a certain aristocratic dignity about her that she had acquired through her long engagement to a curate of family, a scion of the Wiltshire Edmondshaws. She tied the obi clumsily about her waist, then gently laid her hand on the bowed head. “Good-bye, John,” she said simply. What the devil is the matter, Dunster?” “I beg your pardon, sir,” the man answered, “there is a lady here to see you. But they would not be denied.
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