"Mac, did you ever run across a missioner by the name of Enschede?" "Enschede?" McClintock stared at the ceiling. Stanley, standing on the hearthrug with his back to the unlit gas-fire. He was a young man of about two-and-twenty, who, without having anything remarkable either in dress or appearance, was yet a noticeable person, if only for the indescribable expression of cunning pervading his countenance. The dinner was stranger than she had ever anticipated. Wood trembled. It must be sent home this evening. “This wonderful affection of yours for my sister, does it date from your first meeting with her in Paris?” He hesitated. She sat drawn together in her chair in the corner of the box, at a loss what to say or do—afraid, curious, perplexed. “Come right in,” he hissed under his breath, with the true conspirator’s note, closed the door very softly and pointed, “Through there!” By the meagre light of a gas lamp she perceived a cobbled yard with four large furniture vans standing with horses and lamps alight.
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