Jonathan nodded assent. It was cheating, pitiful cheating. “Don’t be an ass, Ferringhall,” he said tersely. She took it up in her many-ringed hands and read it judicially. “I heard the other day that she’d been taken in by some cad of a fellow who was cutting a great dash in Paris, personating Meysey Hill, the great railway man. A week later the manuscript was polished and typewritten, ready for the test. The old man Pottiswick, still grumbling, much to Melusine’s disgust, had gone on his errand to his daughter’s house some two miles distant.
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