I consented. "Who—who is the Marquis de Chatillon?" "Your adopted son, Thames Darrell," answered Winifred. The sun-canvas was stowed; and Spurlock's chair was set forward the foremast, where the bulging jib cast a sliding blue shadow over him. “Very likely. And, by way of checking his housekeeper's familiarity, he pointed significantly to the table. “What is a ballot-box like, exactly?” she asked, as though it was very important to her. He could not contain his satisfaction, but chuckled, and rubbed his hands with delight.
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