But at this point he was still subservient, still outwardly humble, in spite of the blackhearted villainy that was even then burgeoning in his breast. The only thing that was louder to her was the beating of his heart. Good night. “I cannot but conclude,” he said, “that your errand involved the recital to my wife of some trouble in which you find yourself. What was the name on those marriage lines you showed me?’ ‘M—Melusine,’ stammered the woman, her countenance yet registering shock. Pausing with the intention of turning back, he glanced in the direction of the village church, the tower of which could just be seen through the trees. I meant to give him a drubbing. CHAPTER XXIII. She is something different. But come in, dear.
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