"Your mother is dead," interposed Wild, scowling. ’ ‘Yolande, my maid?’ ‘You don’t need a maid,’ Martha said stoutly. He touched her hand, soft and cool to his fingers—she turned at once to look at him. “You are in luck, Miss Pellissier,” he declared. One of them was a stout square-built man, with a singularly swarthy complexion, and harsh forbidding features. CHAPTER IV. " Upon which he drew the trigger of the pistol, which, luckily for the individual against whom it was aimed, flashed in the pan.
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