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. Did she suppose him a possible pretender to her daughter’s hand? The girl—Dorothée, if memory served—was clearly marriageable, but he imagined most of these unhappy exiles were all but penniless. A beachcomber in embryo, and she had lent a hand through habit as much as through pity. Upstairs, in the little dressing-room, the panel was opened by means of tugging a small candlesconce in the wall. ‘You’ve found her out?’ ‘Tell us at once,’ urged Miss Froxfield.
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