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. A long and secret conference then took place between the thief-taker and his myrmidons, after which they were severally dismissed. Then pain entered their depths. She rested her head upon his shoulder. The letter began: “MY DEAREST GIRL,—I cannot let you do this foolish thing—” She crumpled notes and letter together in her hand, and then with a passionate gesture flung them into the fire. ‘Thanks to him, Hilary and I nearly had our heads blown off. ‘And I have a very good mind to kill you.
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