’ ‘A pretty tale. " "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. Perhaps that other boy who visited you backstage at the concert. He leaned towards her as though anxious to see more of her face than that faint delicate profile gleaming like marble in the uncertain light. ‘I’m following a scent. Take my advice. Where even to be a Catholic, they say, is to be looked upon with scorn and disgust.
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