It is queer how ideas pop into one's head. Presently she became aware of footsteps hurrying after her, and glanced back to find Miss Klegg, a little out of breath, in pursuit. Well, I shall be sorry to lose him, Mr. He fancied that the turnkeys had discovered his flight and were in pursuit of him,—that they had climbed up the chimney,—entered the Red Room,— tracked him from door to door, and were now only detained by the gate which he had left unbroken in the chapel. There was a look in her eyes which puzzled him. Now, you and I can gossip at a gate, and Honi soit qui mal y pense.
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