Good looks, with a melancholy cast, always drew sentimental females. Courtlaw sat with folded arms. Lights gleamed from the lower rooms, and, on a nearer approach to the building, the sound of revelry might be heard from within. She could not bear the shame of it. “I suppose I ought to congratulate you,” he said. To-morrow night —or rather to-night, for we are fast verging on another day—I propose to lure him out of the house by a stratagem which I am sure will prove infallible; and, then, what so easy as to knock him on the head. “I’ll run, too,” she volunteered.
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