Wrenching his hands from her shoulders, she thrust them away and leapt up from the chair. "Is this Misther Wudd's, my pretty miss?" demanded the rough voice of the Irish watchman. While the carpenter irresolutely quitted the room, with a strong presentiment of ill upon his mind, a light quick step was heard descending the stairs, and before he could call out to prevent it, a man was admitted into the passage. Dizzily, she grabbed at the mantel for support and, resting her head on her hands, paid no heed to a betraying sound behind her—until an unexpected arm encircled her. He swore that I was his wife, and—I shot him, Nigel, as his arms were closing around me.
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