"I was a fool to mention the fact," thought Owen, with one of these wonderful after inspirations that closes the door when the horse is stolen.
"Yes, from one who was dressed in the somber garb of a cloister," he replied.
"You evidently do not believe she was what she outwardly appeared?"
"You are a modern Portia, cousin," he laughed.
"Of course, a prisoner at the bar is not pledged to commit himself. If I am over bold forgive me and make no reply. But, you know, a woman's curiosity is proverbial."
"I shall answer frankly—she was no member of the Order of the Holy Grail—the garb was assumed to conceal her identity."
"From Jerome—from you?"
"Both, I presume."
"You recognized her face?"
"I did not see that—it was her voice. Even then I was in a maze until she had gone."