"Whose grave is this?" he inquired of a man who was standing near it. " "But it is the sight of you!" "All right, Hoddy. “He is one of our guests—perhaps I should say boarders here, but he seldom returns before dinner-time. Jesus! They just wouldn’t let up about you after you played the violin for them. “Isn’t that rather a strange question—under the circumstances?” he asked quietly. On this side was a razor with which a son had murdered his father; the blade notched, the haft crusted with blood: on that, a bar of iron, bent, and partly broken, with which a husband had beaten out his wife's brains. Wood's dwelling,—a plain, substantial, commodious farm-house. "Who—who is the Marquis de Chatillon?" "Your adopted son, Thames Darrell," answered Winifred.
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