"You'll be as good as your word, my charmer," whispered the executioner. He looked at Annabel, whose face was buried in her hands— he looked back at Anna, who was regarding him with an easy composure which secretly irritated him. “I cannot pretend that I am glad to see you, Lady Ferringhall,” he said quietly. "As it's getting late, and the porter may be gone to bed," he observed; "I'll take the pass-key, and let myself in. The doctor said you wrote. I could resist the tempter now, I am strong in health,—in mind.
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