So Mrs. “Nigel, Nigel,” she cried. Hers was beauty on a large scale no doubt; but it was beauty, nevertheless: and the carpenter thought her eyes as bright, her complexion as blooming, and her figure (if a little more buxom) quite as captivating as when he led her to the altar some twenty years ago. She slipped down the perfunctory flight of stairs, short because of the home’s split-level style. "I dare not, Rowland," she answered. "Within the last few minutes, all my guilty life has passed before me. A little smothered cry broke from her lips—the curtains were thrown aside and a man stepped out. Not content with this, the assailants set fire to the house in half-a-dozen other places; and the progress of the flames was rapid and destructive.
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