Sheppard. His room was last at the end of one winding corner. She posed herself before her mirror and surveyed herself with gravely thoughtful, gravely critical, and yet admiring eyes. It was enough. ‘Ah, there is the little menace itself,’ he drawled, recovering some of his own sangfroid. It was Blueskin. Ascending the stairs, and conducting them along a sombre gallery, in which Trenchard noticed that every door was painted black, and numbered, he stopped at the entrance of a chamber; and, selecting a key from the bunch at his girdle, unlocked it. In each corner stood a stout square post reaching to the ceiling.
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