" "God help me, what a muddle!" The cigar crumbled in Spurlock's hand. She entered the front hall, formerly magnificent, now faded and dusty, the old wood table waiting for guests who would never come. But you, Ferringhall, our pattern, an erstwhile Sheriff of London, a county magistrate, a prospective politician, a sober and an upright man, one who, had he aspired to it, might even have filled the glorious position of Lord Mayor— James, a whisky and Apollinaris at once. Your laugh reminds me of—of——" "Whose, Sir?" demanded Jackson, becoming suddenly grave. Bounding the corner of a garden wall, he came upon his former place of imprisonment. It isn't for their sakes, it's for your own. They trudged along a little hungry, because of the fruitarian refreshments, and mentally very active. Take them, and may they prove as serviceable to you as I desire.
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