‘Could she have been a spy, after all?’ ‘Oh, she’s not a spy,’ Gerald answered, almost absently. Mind, I, Baptist Kettleby, say so. I was sure you could not have the heart to slay a child—an innocent child. Already she missed all of her fine things, her linens and leather bound books. It is I who am persecuted by the man who calls himself your husband. ‘I’ll handle her better alone. " "Poh! poh! say no more about it," rejoined the man hastily. "Mutual concessions," she added. But a biddable girl. “It was your own fault,” she exclaimed. She had lost her nerve, and there was no more freedom in London for her that night.