Another horseman followed quickly at the heels of the first; but just as he passed the spot where Jack stood, his steed missed its footing, and fell. "Where am I?" she cried, passing her hand across her brow. Manning, Lady Palsworthy’s nephew, a tall young man of seven-and-thirty with a handsome, thoughtful, impassive face, a full black mustache, and a certain heavy luxuriousness of gesture. “It is in your hands from now on, Shar. "Oh!" she gasped. That won’t involve references, as a bank account would—and all that sort of thing.
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