. ’ They passed through a little antechamber, and Melusine sighed with relief as she entered the library next door. . “Yes! I must! The thing is becoming a torture to me. And I want you for myself—for my wife. Another horn now resounded from the further extremity of the thoroughfare; this was answered by a third; and presently a fourth, and more remote blast, took up the note of alarm. “What have you done?” 212 “It is your own fault, Lucia. It was the day I borrowed a pencil; the day we first spoke to one another. Perhaps an hour passed before she laid aside the book. It’s odd, but nothing but cliche seems to meet this case.
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