"Another such attempt," said the latter, "and you are a dead man. It is queer how ideas pop into one's head. It had been her home for hundreds of years. She loved to be told to do things. If only Gerald would come. The features were indistinct, but was that not a halo of white about it? And the dark shadow below, was that a cloak, or the habit of a nun? Skirting the dancing, from which he had taken a breather—not from lack of energy, but to escape the inanities of the young ladies he had partnered—Gerald made his way to a side door in the saloon and opened it. I thought—the papers said——” “You thought that I was dead,” he interrupted.
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