That was the true marvel of it. And there was another matter. Capes was an exceptionally fair man of two or three-and-thirty, so ruddily blond that it was a mercy he had escaped light eyelashes, and with a minor but by no means contemptible reputation of his own. " "Not unless your skull's bullet-proof," cried a voice at his elbow; and, as the words were uttered, a pistol was snapped at his head, which,—fortunately or unfortunately, as the reader pleases,—only burnt the priming. We leave England to-night. But I liked the things you said here. "And so I want the boy out of the way," he concluded. ‘Ha! It’s you, is it?’ He threw a glance at his two juniors.
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