‘I suppose he isn’t this Leonardo you spoke of?’ ‘Certainly he is not Leonardo. . “You might at least,” she murmured, “have invented a more romantic reason. And a broken picture that was torn when I hit him with it. That is what my mother used to call me. He entered it; crossed the room, in which there was only a small truckle-bed, over which he stumbled; opened another door and gained the stair-head. Later in the evening she heard him whistling, poor man! She felt very restless and excited. What was their surprise to find it vacant, and the prisoner gone! Jonathan, could scarcely believe his eyes. "Where is he, then?" demanded the other, hastily. Annabel seated herself in an easy chair and determined to wait for her sister’s return.
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