Paris looms behind—a tragedy of strange recollections—here she emerges Phœnix-like, subtly developed, a flawless woman, beautiful, self-reliant, witty, a woman with the strange gift of making all others beside her seem plain or vulgar. "You didn't spend it?" "I never intended to spend it—any more than I really intended to steal it. One learns to sit up. " "We shall expect you to-morrow," insinuated Mrs. He passed but a cursory glance over the formal certificate that identified the Frenchman before him as one André Valade, distant cousin to the Vicomte Valade. He had thought it might have that effect. But it is not entirely without hope, for perhaps they may find some succour with Charvill.
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