White——” “No more,” Sydney Courtlaw begged, laughingly. And as he gave back the portfolio to Sir Rowland he contrived, unobserved, to slip the precious document into his sleeve, and from thence into his pocket. The next morning she went out with her post-office savings bank-book, and telegraphed for a warrant to draw out all the money she had in the world. Mary Remenham had passed on her every feature to the daughter whose advent had taken her from this world. "I'm at your mercy, Poll," rejoined Kneebone, abjectly. She also knew that he was the type who would not make a single physical overture until she pushed the correct buttons.
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