THE SILVER CORD.
BY SHIRLEY BROOKS.
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CHAPTER XLI.
Robert Urquhart raised his wife from the position whence her terror had left her powerless to arise, and he placed her in the single chair in the apartment. Adair, recovering from the rude shock he had received, came up to his assailant, and with much composure, said:
“There had better be no mistake between us, Mr. Urquhart.”
“There will be none, sir, rely on that,” replied the Scot, turning sternly upon him. “Who are you?”
“My name is Ernest Adair, I am an Englishman, and I am a prisoner at the moment, on the charge of having wounded a ruffian who assaulted me during a gambling quarrel.”
“Creditable company for a lady.”
“When you know the lady’s errand here, you will be glad to have abstained from harsh language.”
“The sooner I hear it the better, my man,” said Urquhart, who spoke calmly enough, but whose lip and nostril gave sign which even a braver man than Adair might have noted with apprehension.
“What is going to be said?” sobbed Bertha, wringing her hands in the extremity of her dismay.
“Very little, Bertha,” replied her husband. “But I believe it will be to the purpose.”
“It will, indeed, Mr. Urquhart,” said Adair. “But it is more fit that I should say it, than Mrs. Urquhart. You found this lady earnestly entreating a favour of me. Do you desire to hear what that favour was?”
“I desire it so much,” said the husband, “that