” Anna glanced momentarily towards her sister, but Annabel neither spoke nor moved. "So you're writing under a nom de plume, eh?" said McClintock, holding out the letter. From the further end of the apartment came the low music of a violin. "I beg pardon," he said. Once more he was the searcher. Wet as he was, he felt if he lay down in the grass, he should perish with cold; while, if he sought a night's lodging in any asylum, his dress, stained with blood and covered with dirt, would infallibly cause him to be secured and delivered into the hands of justice.
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