"Whose grave is this?" he inquired of a man who was standing near it. Monsieur Charvill, he is also my cousin. She drifted northward from the Strand, and came on some queer and dingy quarters. Only she hadn’t. I thought Bess would have cried her pretty eyes out when she heard you was nabbed. Then light footsteps became audible, descending the staircase with a certain deliberation and a faint rustle of skirts. Not us. A crutch, with a silver handle, stood by her side, proving the state of extreme debility to which she was reduced.
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