“It is true,” he said, “that I was dining last night at a restaurant in the Boulevard des Italiennes, and it is true that my companion was a young lady whose name is Pellissier. A faint gleam of returning colour gave her at once a more natural appearance. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. It was dangerous for her to dare approaching him and she knew the tremendous risk she was taking, but a part of her demanded that he be found. Gosse! Dieu du ciel, but how did he get into the convent? She had perforce to obey his command, for speech was impossible. "But, I own, I think it is like. ” He signed his name and reflected.
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