“That is the gentleman,” interposed the stranger, addressing the invalid in the Bath chair, “whom I believe you met outside that curious house in London, for whom the bag was intended when it was dropped from the upper window.”
“Do you mean,” asked Mr. Beckwith, “the thin, white-faced fellow, who ran at me across the street, and then, before I could speak to him, bolted for his life?”
“I believe that is the very individual. You will perhaps understand why he bolted before this lady has finished. Ten thousand apologies for my interruption.”
“My foster-brother,” went on Miss Galstin, treating the interruption as if it were nothing at all, “has his good points; he also has his bad ones from which I was to surfer. I told him to be outside my apartment that night at a certain time, when perh
