"Who—who is the Marquis de Chatillon?" "Your adopted son, Thames Darrell," answered Winifred. You have watched all the uncouth creations of my brain come sprawling out upon the canvas, and besides, we have been companions. Lucy wore it every day from then on. “Fred,” he said, “do you remember taking me to dinner at the ‘Ambassador’s,’ one evening last September, to meet a girl who was singing there? Hamilton and Drummond and his lot were with us. Everybody looked askance at everybody else. I could see his little animal brain churning away, inventing plans for me, formulating his revenge.
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