Their conversation degenerated again and again into a strain of self-congratulation that would have irked an eavesdropper. But I've an idea as well as you, grounded in some measure upon Sheppard's story. It was the grand nursery of vice. Upstairs, in the little dressing-room, the panel was opened by means of tugging a small candlesconce in the wall. "Rowland," she said, in a faint voice, "I have not many minutes to live. —"As Rowland's whole crew perished in the tempest, and he only escaped by miracle, he fancied himself free from detection.
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