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The smell of gunpowder was strong in the room. He was now within a foot of the bar, and introducing himself into the hole, speedily worked his way to it. Upon a table, where they had been hastily deposited, on the intelligence of Darrell's accident, lay a pair of pink kid gloves, bordered with lace, and an enormous fan; the latter, when opened, represented the metamorphosis and death of Actæon. There was a bare chance that he had been mistaken. And then if some day Capes wanted her—saw fit to alter his views upon friendship. "Friends!" echoed Kneebone, with a look of dismay. “Will you come in, Sir John. And she is very young, younger than her years.
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