"Assume a virtue if I have it not!" said she, with some asperity.
"It is unavoidable, what are we to do?"
"Why—is this a conspiracy between you, for it looks very like it?"
"On my honour it is not," replied Denzil, earnestly and tenderly; "but Toorkistan—think of that."
"Yes—Toorkistan!" repeated the Khan, detecting the word, resentment still gleaming in his eyes that a Kaffir girl should dare to laugh at or mock him.
And in this pleasant dilemma we must leave them for a time.
CHAPTER XXVI.
THE WANDERER.
We must now ask the reader to traverse with greater speed than even the electric wire possesses, both sea and land, and, annihilating time and space, accompany us once more to the opening scenes of our story—even to the grey, sea-beaten cliffs, and broad brown moors of Cornwall.
In an early chapter we referred to a certain hostelry named the Trevanion Tavern, as a place where sundry beverages were procurable, and to which General Trecarrel (whose poor old bones were whitening now with others in the Khyber Pass) sent Mike Treherne and his comrades on that exciting evening when Audley Trevelyan rescued Sybil Devereaux from the terrors of the gloomy Pixies' Hole.