" As he said this, he moved forward a few paces, when, finding his feet glued to the ground by some adhesive substance, he stooped to feel what it was, but instantly withdrew his hand, with an exclamation of horror. ‘Don’t dare address me by such a title. It was Sunday evening—a soft delicious evening, and, from the happy, cheerful look of the house, none would have dreamed of the dismal tragedy so lately acted within its walls. Don’t you know I disinherited the rogue?’ ‘This we knew, milor’,’ said Valade. “Don’t you care for Mr. 9. To-night we leave for Marseilles. " "I'm sorry. " "You do not remember me, I dare say," observed the stranger. A few bricks, dislodged probably by his last descent, came clattering down the chimney, and as it was perfectly dark, gave him the notion that some one was endeavouring to force an entrance into the room. CHAPTER XVI.
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