Mr. "I guess who you mean," rejoined Shotbolt. ’ Hilary’s jaw dropped open, and he stood stupidly staring, the nun’s clothing dangling from his hand. It was a neat, efficient-looking room, with a writing-table placed with a business-like regard to the window, and a bookcase surmounted by a pig’s skull, a dissected frog in a sealed bottle, and a pile of shiny, black-covered note-books. These things were common knowledge among the bon ton, who were generously welcoming these unfortunate escapees. “Why should it matter?” he said.
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