The point is, Spurlock was coming along: queerly, by his own imagination. She’s a snob. I give you the plain, unadulterated truth. He carried a cane and a silk hat with a mourning-band in one gray-gloved hand; his frock-coat and trousers were admirable; his handsome face, his black mustache, his prominent brow conveyed an eager solicitude. You are—horrible. He had not proceeded far when he was alarmed by the tramp of a horse, which seemed to be rapidly approaching, and he had scarcely time to leap the hedge and conceal himself behind a tree, when a tall man, enveloped in an ample cloak, with his hat pulled over his brows, rode by at full speed. “What were you doing outside Miss Pellissier’s flat to-night? You were looking at her windows.
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