And grasping the thick iron rod, she pushed with all her force against it, while Jack seconded her efforts from within. Moving swiftly to the end of the corridor, he pushed open a door at random and entered a large room, which looked to have been a saloon, judging from the faded gilt and crimson wall-paper, a mirror above the fireplace which was surrounded by an ornate gilded frame, now sadly tarnished, and a worn Chippendale sofa with striped upholstery and tasselled cushions. “Thank God,” he exclaimed. Not a word was uttered by the assemblage; but a hush of expectation reigned throughout. Only you good ones— shirk. What right had she to call herself “Alcide”? It was abominable, an imposture.
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