“What were you trying to do?” Lucy asked. “I can’t imagine, Miss Pellissier,” Brendon said, leaning towards her, “whatever made you think of coming to stay if only for a week at a Montague Street boarding-house. It seemed to her that it was her duty to get up and clamor to go home to her room, to protest against his advances as an insult. It is you who took my name, not I yours. Then I cross-checked it with the name Alberti. Ramage looked at her for a long and discriminating interval without speaking. There was some justification for her annoyance, for negotiation of the secret passage demanded either a stout heart, or a desperate one.
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