" "And so Sir Rowland murdered his friend," remarked Wood. Valade, who was standing by her chair, glancing around the packed pink-papered saloon with a heavy frown on his face, was a thickset man of coarse, reddened feature, with a discontented air. " "'No doubt,'" said Wood, who had again turned over the leaves of the sacred volume—', "no doubt this man is a murderer, whom, though he escaped the seas, yet vengeance suffereth not to live'. His two wives have been here. The back of the house had been the Alps for climbing, and the shrubs in front of it a Terai.
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