E. So you are Prudence Remenham. ‘And it is not only a question of her identity, but a matter of her life as well. “Perhaps for me,” she added, with a sudden wistful look out of the bare high window, “a night of beginnings. “He was a friend of your sister’s, was he not?” “I never heard her mention his name,” she answered. He fancied that the whole fabric of the bridge was cracking over head,—that the arch was tumbling upon him,—that the torrent was swelling around him, whirling him off, and about to bury him in the deafening abyss.
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