" "It is strange," replied Winifred, artlessly. I got a rusty bolt cutter. The danger you put yourself in by remaining here astounds me. "That depends upon you. ’ Melusine bit her lip on a sharp retort. “I repeat, gentlemen,” he said, in an ominously low tone, “what of it?” Drummond shrugged his shoulders. She had left for ever the cage, the galling leash: she was free. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. .
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