" "In whose favour is it made?" he inquired, sternly. She did not learn the kind of looks she had been bestowing upon him at a convent. Fancying they were alone, Sir Rowland threw aside his cloak, and produced a heavy bag of money, which he flung upon the table; and, when Wild had feasted his greedy eyes sufficiently upon its golden contents, he handed him a pocketbook filled with notes. Wait, though. Arrived there, the porter thundered at the massive door of the Lodge, which was instantly opened—Shotbolt's note having been received just before. When she came to, she was lying with her head in Martha’s lap, and a livid bruise was forming at the point of a raging headache. She walked straight across to the wardrobe and opened it. “You seem to be taking our little joke more seriously than it deserves, Ferringhall,” he remarked. You must—you shall be mine.
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