"But to the point," continued Wild, unconscious of the peril in which the remark had placed him,—"to the point. He beheld the grey tower of Willesden Church, embosomed in its grove of trees, now clothed, in all the glowing livery of autumn. ‘All these soldiers,’ she complained, adding with a sweep of one arm at the major’s dress, ‘all of them in red as you. ” “It was Cheveney!” he said slowly. To his consternation, she was holding an unwieldy, ugly-looking pistol, all wood and tarnished steel, with both hands about the butt. He took over, doing his best to rearrange his overly sensitive member back into his pants. She did not try to approach him. Even Blueskin looked on with anxiety. “Oh, we are also under the spell,” he declared, “but I think that we are here mainly because it is cheap. My letters are returned unopened, her maid will not even allow me across the doorstep. " "Not unless your skull's bullet-proof," cried a voice at his elbow; and, as the words were uttered, a pistol was snapped at his head, which,—fortunately or unfortunately, as the reader pleases,—only burnt the priming. His smile faded.
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