"I have something further to tell you," pursued Winifred. ” The man’s face was dark with passion. She trailed him to his apartment and a black door that read 727 in solemn gold-tone lettering. From the freshness of the stains, which grew more frequent as they approached the adjoining chamber, it was evident some violence had been recently perpetrated, and the carpenter's own blood froze within his veins as he thought, with a thrill of horror, that, perhaps on this very spot, not many minutes before his arrival, his adopted son might have been inhumanly butchered. It might have been the moon, or the phosphorescence of the broken water, or it might have been his abysmal loneliness; but suddenly he caught her face in his hands and kissed her on the mouth. You see, we travelled second class, and we are in the least known quarter of Paris.
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