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. Still, it was true about men. "Has any one been here?" he asked. It was not as bad a wound as she had at first thought, and the blood was only oozing now. So perfect was the illusion, that he could almost fancy he heard the solemn voice of the ordinary warning him that his race was nearly run, and imploring him to prepare for eternity. Her hair, once red, faded to a thin gray that she kept cut into a practical short bob. The room they were in was a sort of closet, with the door locked outside; but this was only a moment's obstacle to Jack, who with a chisel forced back the bolt. . “No man can realize,” she said, “what that pit can be. The patient fell into a natural and refreshing sleep.
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