I tore that paper to pieces, and used it to wrap up sandwiches for the journey.

   Once again I say, if you cannot feel with me, throw this tale aside. Heaven knows it is a sombre one, and it goes on getting sombrer and sombrer! But probably, by this time, you have either tossed the work away or looked at the end to see what happened to them all.

   The morning dawned.

   I filled my bag with Hanover pieces, which I thought might come in handy on the Spanish Turf, and packed up three or four yellow, red, green, and blue opera hats, so useful to the adventurous bookmaker.

   At this very moment the postman arrived and gave me a letter in a woman's hand.

   I thrust it in my breast pocket recklessly.

   The cab rattled away.

   At last we were off.

   I am sure that no one who could have seen us that morning would have dreamt that out of that party of three—a more than comfortable-looking English matron, a girl whose strange beauty has been sufficiently dwelt upon, and a gentleman in a yellow crush hat and a bookmaker's bag—two were flying from the hands of justice.

   Our appearance was certainly such as to disarm all suspicion.

   But appearances are proverbially deceitful. Were ours deceitful enough?

   'But where are we going?' said my mother, with the short memory of old age.

   'To Paris first, then to Spain, and, if needful, down to Khartoum.'

   '

    Then

   you young people will have to go alone. I draw the line at Dongola.'

   I glanced at Philippa.

 Prev. P 27/51 next