" "You had better write them for me, Mr. I think you’re wrong. The terror faded from her eyes. Pretty good stuff, some of it. He—In fact, he—he locked me in my room. "I guess who you mean," rejoined Shotbolt. "And now," she added, with somewhat more composure, "leave me, dear friends, I entreat, for a few minutes to collect my scattered thoughts—to prepare myself for what I have to go through—to pray for my son. To vault over the pews was the work of a moment; and having gained the entry leading to the Red Room he passed through the first door; his progress being only impeded by the pile of broken stones, which he himself had raised.
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