The vestry was perhaps the only room in the place, except her allotted curtained off portion of the dormitory chamber that served for her cell—and she could not scandalise the nuns by having a man in there, be he never so much a servant—where Melusine could be sure of privacy. “He’s a Fellow of the Royal Society, and he can’t be much over thirty,” said Miss Klegg. Several men and women were piled there like wood, dead, horribly gored. There is a button loose on that coat under your pillow. Luck. —Give me the letters, my love," she added aloud, and in her most winning accents; "they're some wicked forgeries. She waited expectantly. The man turned at the exclamation, and so did several of the bystanders; but they could not make out who had uttered it. She recognized him as the man who had blundered into the wrong room. I shall never come back. Her fingers passed over a cunningly wrought surface of wood, with just the correct amount of protrusion, the precise colours of dyed leather, and cleverly gilded surfaces and neatly painted lettering. In the old days he had been something of an athlete—a runner, an oarsman, and a crack at tennis.
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