‘Never trust a gun in female hands,’ grumbled Hilary, dropping the nun’s habit and backing to join his friend. I’ll get in trouble. " "Not unless your skull's bullet-proof," cried a voice at his elbow; and, as the words were uttered, a pistol was snapped at his head, which,—fortunately or unfortunately, as the reader pleases,—only burnt the priming. “Isn’t that rather a strange question—under the circumstances?” he asked quietly. Marvel held her handkerchief to her eyes, and appeared in great distress. Gerald looked at it, then at her face.
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