And yet to Spurlock it was only the title of a story he would some day write. No sterner head was ever beheld beneath the cowl of a monk, or the bonnet of an inquisitor. “Is your husband here to-night?” he asked. The latter seemed inclined to advance and address the former; but suddenly changing his mind, he shouted to his companion in tones familiar to the stranger's ear; and, striking spurs into his steed, dashed off at full speed along the Edgeware Road. “What have I done, Miss Pellissier?” he pleaded. It was wrenched away from Melusine’s clutching hands.
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