. ‘But who was he, Gerald?’ ‘A damned condottiere,’ exploded Gerald, forgetting his company. Who could say that the girl's father had not once been a fashionable clergyman in the States and that drink had got him and forced him down, step by step, until—to use the child's odd expression—he had come upon the beach? She was cynical, this spinster. At length, about an hour before dawn on the second day—Sunday—having spent the early part of the night in watching at the gates of the robbers' sanctuary, and being almost exhausted from want of rest, she set out homewards. ‘I believe that. The air was sweet with the perfume of flowers, and the melody of murmuring insects, the blue sky was cloudless, the heat of the sun was tempered by the heather-scented west wind. “Dear old daddy!” she said, and was amazed to find herself shedding tears. CHAPTER XXIII. I got to have you under guard in the gatehouse, I can see that. . ’ Mrs Chalkney lifted her brows.
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