Now lend me your own hand. " "So far you are correct," observed Trenchard; "still, this is no secret. O'Higgins returned to town and made a night of it, nothing very wild, nothing very desperate. “MY DEAR MISS STANLEY,” it began,—“I hope you will forgive my bothering you with a letter, but I have been thinking very much over our conversation at Lady Palsworthy’s, and I feel there are things I want to say to you so much that I cannot wait until we meet again. Madame Valade was that kind of woman. She was about to rush to his side, when she saw his clenched hands rise and fall upon the sand repeatedly. If only there had not been this single torturing thought—a mere pin-prick, but still curiously persistent.
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