"Who isn't it like?" he asked, endeavouring to gain possession of the drawing, which, af the sound of his footstep, she crushed between her fingers. I hear her coming. " "And so Sir Rowland murdered his friend," remarked Wood. Ruth returned to the table. His glance swept up again and found her staring at him with much of her usual defiance, if a touch less of her customary assurance. It was an awful moment—so awful, that every other feeling except deep interest in the scene seemed suspended. "Not so, Sir Rowland," returned Jonathan; "you are my prisoner.
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