” “Your priestess,” whispered Ann Veronica, softly. She was marvellously pretty, but he was not quite sure—yet—that it was advisable for him to sit with her in so public a place. No one had lived here since old man Remenham had died some eighteen months ago, for the heir, so it was rumoured, was a relative with property of his own. He—he has rather a poor opinion of his contemporaries. They must be for your father. "So you're writing under a nom de plume, eh?" said McClintock, holding out the letter. She drew a long breath.
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