He sent a speculative glance at the immobile yellow face. "So we are, Ma'am, by your charms," returned Mr. "He is," returned Quilt, significantly. Beyond was a chaise longue, covered with cushions and shawls laid anyhow across it, together with a discarded tapestry in the making, and a scattering of woollen threads about it. "Who—who is the Marquis de Chatillon?" "Your adopted son, Thames Darrell," answered Winifred. I shall find him yet. But how to avail himself of it was the question, for in his present garb he was sure to be recognised.
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