‘Ha!’ uttered Captain Roding triumphantly. Wood's reception of the widow, who, at that moment, was ushered into the room by Winifred, was not particularly kind and encouraging. She was alone with a deadly enemy. Montague Hill. A little inn flying a Swiss flag nestles under a great rock, and there they put aside their knapsacks and lunched and rested in the mid-day shadow of the gorge and the scent of resin. She was posing before the mirror, critically, miserably, defensively, and perhaps bewilderedly. Jack's complexion was that of a gipsy; Darrell's as fresh and bright as a rose. “It is strange that we should have met Annabel,” she said. ‘Certainly you may have me under guard. “John, don’t!” she cried.
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