In a few seconds, the shutter flew open,—then the window,—and they were in the room. . "As yet," pursued the stranger, "Sir Montacute had placed no limit to his son's expenditure. Upon this young fellow's face there were no wrinkles, only shadows, in the hollows of the cheeks and under the eyes. Some shadow of reserve seemed to have crept up between them. “The Annabel who lives here, who sings every night at the ‘Unusual’? They call her by your old name. There was only one small grated window in this hold, which admitted but little light.
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