“Good-bye, John,” she said simply. . ’ ‘Damnation!’ ‘What the devil ails you?’ demanded his friend, striding forward. "You are no longer Thames Darrell," she said, casting her eyes rapidly over it; "but the Marquis de Chatillon. He tried again. The benches running round the room, though fastened to the walls by iron clamps, had been forcibly wrenched off; while the table, which was similarly secured to the boards, was upset, and its contents—bottles, jugs, glasses, and bowls were broken and scattered about in all directions.
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