" "Sir Rowland is dead," replied Jonathan, gloomily. This is a noted place for highwaymen. ‘If it is that your men there are going to arrest us, then why do they not do so?’ ‘Left to myself, I’d let them,’ he replied grimly. I think too much about myself. “It is the same man, Annabel,” she said. A dark mass of wreckage, over which hung a slight mist of vapour, lay half in the ditch, half across the hedge, close under a tree from the trunk of which the bark had been torn and stripped. Almost at once she had comprehended that she was expected to write down her name and address, which she did, in slanting cobwebby lettering, perhaps a trifle laboriously. "Hell's curses!" muttered Jonathan between his teeth; "that fool will ruin all.
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