have gained more than we have lost.  But with Paul Montague at the present moment there was no satisfaction, no pride,—­only a feeling of danger which every hour became deeper, and stronger, with less chance of escape.  He was almost tempted at this moment to detain the woman, and tell her the truth,—­and bear the immediate consequences.  But there would be treason in doing so, and he would not, could not do it.

He was left hardly a moment to think of this.  Almost before the woman had shut the door, Mrs Hurtle came to him out of her bedroom, with her hat on her head.  Nothing could be more simple than her dress, and nothing prettier.  It was now June, and the weather was warm, and the lady wore a light gauzy black dress,&mdash...