"We shall meet again ere long, my son," cried Mrs. 8. His wife's portrait had been removed from the walls, and the place it had occupied was only to be known by the cord by which it had been suspended. Lightheaded, she threw up in the courtyard of the Palazzo as servants crowded her in alarm. Muffling up his face, Jack turned away; but he had not proceeded many steps when he heard a man reading aloud an account of his escapes from a newspaper. I am a man—of a sort of experience. "Miss Enschede, you're seven kinds of a brick!" "A brick?" He chuckled.
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