Whatever happened she need never return to that possibility. They had scarcely gained the adjoining cellar when Jonathan and the Jew rushed past in the direction of the vault. Her secret thoughts made some hasty, half-hearted excursions into the possibility of telling the thing in romantic tones—Ramage was as a black villain, she as a white, fantastically white, maiden. It worked. She speedily reached her own abode,—a little cottage, standing in the outskirts of the village. Those who lived outside the law might squabble among themselves, even unto death, Leonardo told her. “Everybody is taking it up,” said Miss Miniver.
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