Wood was so much exhausted that he was obliged to retire to his own room, where he continued for some hours overpowered by grief. In olden days it boasted a chapel, dedicated to Saint Thomas; beneath which there was a crypt curiously constructed amid the arches, where "was sepultured Peter the Chaplain of Colechurch, who began the Stone Bridge at London:" and it still boasted an edifice (though now in rather a tumbledown condition) which had once vied with a palace,—we mean Nonesuch House. He was a London man of business, spending a small legacy in Paris. What gave the puzzling twist to an ordinary situation was her manner: she was guileless. “I’m d——d if I understand this,” he said thoughtfully. "And will swear to it?" "I will.
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