It was so hopeless to put it to them. "It only leads to the fencing crib," replied Wild. "Manuscripts! Why, this chap is a writer, or is trying to be. But how to avail himself of it was the question, for in his present garb he was sure to be recognised. A snarl contorted his features, and he marched up to it, laying his pistol down on the marquetry table so that his hands were free to grab the picture off the wall. What do you think, Annabel?” “I don’t think they would,” she admitted. ‘And I trust you will pardon my inadequacies.
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