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CHAPTER XII. ’ He closed the panel and came slowly out of the little dressing-room, Roding at his heels. "You are no longer Thames Darrell," she said, casting her eyes rapidly over it; "but the Marquis de Chatillon. ” She said dryly. Here was one of those Americans who would make him breathless before sundown. But Sheppard took no notice of the exclamation. So he resolved to try another tack. She stole the opportunity to peer at his departing figure from the closed curtains of the front room window, his shoulders slumped forward, his posture and his ego slightly deflated. Water poured into her eyes, nose, and mouth in a torrent from which she had to turn and wheeze.
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