Mr. Hopworthy sighed, and shook his head.
"Those magazine men are all a trifle odd," he said. "Does not that parasol fatigue your hand?"
"Yes, you may hold it, if you like," she answered. "I am glad everybody does not tell stories."
THE DEAD MAN'S CHEST
THE DEAD MAN'S CHEST
One May morning in the brave year 1594, Mistress Betty Hodges, from the threshold of the narrowest house in the narrowest of the narrow streets in the ancient parish of St. Helen's, Bishopsgate, observed with more than passing interest the movements of a gentleman in black.