That was how she projected it, and in general terms it seemed plausible and possible. Ascending the stairs, and conducting them along a sombre gallery, in which Trenchard noticed that every door was painted black, and numbered, he stopped at the entrance of a chamber; and, selecting a key from the bunch at his girdle, unlocked it. From the further end of the apartment came the low music of a violin. ” She had a moment of sheer panic at the thing she had done. “Have you killed recently?” He was curious, scared. “She told you that?” “Yes. —'How so?' says I. The door was closed— locked,—and the pair were heard descending the stairs. He'll mend, I hope. I need scarcely ask whether you've executed your appointed task, my dear? You're never behindhand. ” She whispered.
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