Spurling, as if struck by a sudden idea. " "Not unless your skull's bullet-proof," cried a voice at his elbow; and, as the words were uttered, a pistol was snapped at his head, which,—fortunately or unfortunately, as the reader pleases,—only burnt the priming. “What has he to do with it?” “He was your sister’s master—her friend. I got a rusty bolt cutter. Pshaw!" added he, making an effort to subdue his emotion, "I can't leave you in this way. ” “She does. "What?—help take care of him? Why, you can't do that, Miss Enschede!" was the protest. His own peculiar genius—a miracle key to the hidden things in men's souls—had given him this immediate and astonishing illumination.
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