In the grate were some charred fragments of a marriage certificate. ‘Beg pardon, sir?’ asked the sergeant, evidently mystified. " He opened his eyes, to behold hers large with wonder. This way, Sir Rowland. I worship you. He raised her to a sitting position. And, with a glance of malignant exultation, he quitted the vault, and locked the door. You know not what a wretched guilty thing I am. Brewis had told him the Valade family had been victim to wholesale murder, and a twinge of compassion had wrung even his deliberately hardened heart. “Let your friends act for you. '—'Oh! yes we are,' says he.
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