“So Brendon and I,” he said, “have been troubled with the same fears. But—” The tired woman raised her eyebrows in mild protest. Behind the Avenue was a little hill, and an iron-fenced path went over the crest of this to a stile under an elm-tree, and forked there, with one branch going back into the Avenue again. At length, about three o'clock, as the first glimmer of dawn became visible through the barred casements of the round-house, the rattling of bolts and chains at the outer door told that some one was admitted. But at length, there was a click, and with a swish, the panel of painted books swung outward from the wall. That last year in Paris, when Annabel and she had lived in different worlds, had often been a nightmare to her. There was a moment’s breathless and disappointed silence.
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