It was Ennison, who loomed up through the shadows. Lucy thought of a song that she had not been able to get out of her head since the Fifties. Look! Is that some one coming out?” The front door of the flats stood open, and through it a woman, slim and veiled, passed on to the pavement and turned with swift footsteps in the opposite direction. "Close the doors below! Loose the dogs! Curses! they don't hear me! I'll ring the alarm-bell. Her secret thoughts made some hasty, half-hearted excursions into the possibility of telling the thing in romantic tones—Ramage was as a black villain, she as a white, fantastically white, maiden. "No such thing," rejoined the jailer; "he's coming on business.
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