The fatal shower, from which he and his little charge escaped uninjured, had stricken his assailant and precipitated him into the boiling gulf. He waved a cordial goodbye. ’ ‘Fiddle,’ scoffed Miss Froxfield. Courtlaw, is it not,” she remarked, with lifted eyebrows. Hers were less noble, yet stately. Spurling, for so was she named, had a warm nut-brown complexion, almost as dark as a Creole; and a moustache on her upper lip, that would have done no discredit to the oldest dragoon in the King's service. And taking the keys, he departed on the errand. There was just a minute’s hesitation before they gave her a room.
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