There was a stain of wine upon her dress. A few feet away, across the low vases of pink and white roses, sat Annabel, more beautiful to-night perhaps than ever before in her life. For such of us as pretend to be wise—and we are but fools in a lesser degree—we know that humanity moves onward only by the impellant of fine dreams. The door was locked; but, with the bars of iron, it was speedily burst open. There was no sense in creating further difficulties for herself by arguing with the sergeant over her identity. ‘Burned them, one by one, right before that fellow’s eyes.
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