My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. To-day he selected the girl, and gave her the lead-chair. A single false step might have precipitated him into the street; or, if he had trodden upon an unsound part of the roof, he must have fallen through it. While this was passing, Jonathan had ridden back to Marvel to tell him that all was ready, and to give him his last instructions. “It was unpleasant while it lasted, but it is over —and my toasted scones are delicious. At the back of her mind there seemed always one irrelevant qualifying spectator whose presence she sought to disregard.
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