"Done!" cried Shotbolt. "While I live you are safe," rejoined Trenchard; "after my death I can answer for nothing. It seemed to him that speech would be an anticlimax. “This,” he exclaimed, “must be either the indifference of an utterly callous nature, or it may be—ye gods, it may be—innocence. “Don’t!” she said, weakly, as he had bent down and put one arm about her and seized her hands with his disengaged hand and kissed her—kissed her almost upon her lips. He was walking listlessly along, well-dressed, debonnair, good-looking. “Damned Rascal!” he said.
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