I can't bear it. "My name is Darrell," said the fugitive hastily. Moving swiftly to the end of the corridor, he pushed open a door at random and entered a large room, which looked to have been a saloon, judging from the faded gilt and crimson wall-paper, a mirror above the fireplace which was surrounded by an ornate gilded frame, now sadly tarnished, and a worn Chippendale sofa with striped upholstery and tasselled cushions. He blushed furiously; it was not what he had expected to hear. “Is your husband here to-night?” he asked. “We’re going to be sensible.
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