‘I think,’ he said pleasantly, ‘that it would be as well if you, Hilary, were to go and fetch the troops. "This gash," he added, pointing to one of the larger scars, "was a wipe from the hanger of Tom Thurland, whom I apprehended for the murder of Mrs. Kneebone and his friends would be glad of a little refreshment. "By my shalvation, boy," he added, fiercely, "if you don't take your hande off my peard, I'll sthrangle you. ‘Dare I suppose that to be of her making?’ Gerald flushed. There was nothing left now of the selfassured, prosperous man of affairs. “My dear boy,” she exclaimed.
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