"You are no longer Thames Darrell," she said, casting her eyes rapidly over it; "but the Marquis de Chatillon. A great bowl of scarlet carnations gleamed from a dark corner, set against the background of a deep brown wall. If you know her for the vicious, scheming wretch that she is, why in God’s name—?’ ‘She’s not a vicious, scheming wretch,’ Gerald said calmly. A dissipated, loose-living man. You—It’s jolly of you to confide in me. “You say that he is alive. That’s about the beginning.
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