A single glance served to show the thief-taker how matters stood. When he returned, a moment or so afterwards, he found Sir Rowland standing by the lifeless body of his sister. “So am I the jewel or the bug inside?” He smiled. Wood had the advantage of her husband in point of years, being on the sunny side of forty,—a period pronounced by competent judges to be the most fascinating, and, at the same time, most critical epoch of woman's existence,—whereas, he was on the shady side of fifty,—a term of life not generally conceived to have any special recommendation in female eyes. “She”, you say.
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