Kneebone," observed Shotbolt, as he emptied his tenth tumbler; "I'm sure he's meditating an escape, and hopes to accomplish it to-night. She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness. He's a Welshman, and I wouldn't for a trifle that any accident befel him. “You silly fool,” he said. Ramage looked at her for a long and discriminating interval without speaking. Then he turned round and gazed thoughtfully at the particular spot in the fog where Courtlaw had disappeared. In privacy he read and reread it a dozen times, and eventually destroyed it by fire.
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