She meditated long and carefully upon her letter to her father before she wrote it, and gravely and deliberately again before she despatched it. She stood looking down upon him with dilated eyes. ‘I know her, ma’am, but I know next to nothing of her story. I could not keep away any longer. Will you find your destiny, I wonder, or will you go through life like so many others—a wanderer, knocking ever at empty doors, homeless to the last? Oh, if one could but find the way to your heart. It had been easy to steal. She speedily reached her own abode,—a little cottage, standing in the outskirts of the village. Near as idiot as this capitaine of yours. When she awoke from a pleasant dream an hour later, she was shocked to find herself restrained in a bed that was not hers and not the inn’s. I thought my sister and her murdered husband dragged me hither, to this very room, and commanded you to slay me. But how far could he fly on a few hundred? True, he might find a job somewhere; but every footstep from behind…! "Who is she? Where does she come from?" "You mean Miss Enschede?" "Yes. If hate could kill, Ramage would have been killed by a flash of hate.
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