“To-night we are as we have always been. Kneebone," observed Shotbolt, as he emptied his tenth tumbler; "I'm sure he's meditating an escape, and hopes to accomplish it to-night. But you need not fear,’ she added, shaking him off. Without turning or looking in his direction she leaned forwards, her head supported upon her fingers, her elbows upon her knees. There is a musical programme, and we have the windows open and blinds up, and a pink lamp shade over the piano lamp—a sort of advertisement of the place, you know. “I wonder if I’ve been properly brought up.
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