Are you my accuser?" "I am," replied Wild; "have you anything to allege to the contrary?" "Only this," returned Thames: "that the charge is false, and malicious, and that you know it to be so. Well, if she survives the accident—as the blood, who styles himself Sir Cecil, fancies she may do—this ring will make my fortune by leading to the discovery of the chief parties concerned in this strange affair. She marvelled at his apparent imperviousness to the heat. “Why do you hate me again, my love?” He seemed to brighten, feeding upon the intensity of her emotion. Did he intend to kill her now, this instant? Or had she a moment or two to try to save herself? Recalling Leonardo’s dictum, she did not struggle, for that would only tighten the trap about her, and perhaps even spring it. And then: “Of course! Always. She cried and sobbed in fits. “If I was the world I think I should have put down a crimson carpet, and asked you to say what you wanted, and generally walk over me. She was for ever scanning luggage and finding her way about the world, via these miniature pictures. Come!” They went out together and he called a hansom. Two or three podgy-looking old men with wives to match, half-a-dozen overdressed girls, and a couple of underdressed American ones, who still wore the clothes in which they had been tramping half over London since breakfast time. “I’m damned if I’ll believe it,” he muttered to himself savagely. "What's the matter with the man?" demanded Wild.
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