At length, at the end of a passage, next to the cell where Mrs. A little smothered cry broke from her lips—the curtains were thrown aside and a man stepped out. CHAPTER VIII. " "Then it was not a dream!" ejaculated Sir Rowland in a hollow voice, and as if speaking to himself. Ha!" exclaimed the stranger, as shouts and other vociferations resounded at no great distance along the thoroughfare, "not a moment is to be lost. " "And so Sir Rowland murdered his friend," remarked Wood. "God in Heaven!" he cried, "the floor is covered with blood. Battle, murder, and sudden death—and an old chap like McClintock tuning his piano in the midst of it. He had done it. A lucky escape.
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