She laughed till the tears stood in her eyes. The arrival of the cart at the end of Field Lane, appeared the signal for an attempt at rescue. ‘Certainly this is true,’ she managed. She had traversed perhaps three bookshelves, passed across the door that must lead to the hall, turned the corner, and was just about to reach the fireplace when she abruptly became aware that something under her fingers had felt wrong. All we have to apprehend is a rescue. "You are no longer Thames Darrell," she said, casting her eyes rapidly over it; "but the Marquis de Chatillon. .
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