‘Why have you come in here?’ demanded Melusine, turning on him. The struggles of the wounded man were desperate—so desperate, that in his agony he overset the table, and, in the confusion, tore off the cloth, and disclosed a face horribly mutilated, and streaming with blood. “Were you thinking of private apartments, a boarding-house or an hotel?” she asked. He was perched on the very edge of the leather seat of the coach, his threecornered hat twisting nervously in his hands, and from time to time he passed a tongue over dry lips. He walked in her direction. Next instant, Gerald felt his wrist seized in an iron grip.
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