"It was that song that put it into my head to cut my name on the beam. " "I fancied I heard voices," rejoined Sir Rowland. You called yourself a murderess. Five minutes ago, his butler had entered the green saloon, an austere apartment, with dark forest-green wallpaper flocked with a swirling design, and heavy mahogany furniture. “But why,” he said in the gasping voice of one subduing an agony, and looked at her from under a pain-wrinkled brow, “why did you not tell me this before?” “I didn’t know—I thought I might be able to control myself. A slow anger burned in the man.
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