It was her foster brother Mike, on his way to the bathroom. “Anna! What tragedy has happened, little sister? No lights, no supper, no coffee —and, above all, no Mr. You will sever ties with your own kin?” “Yes. “I repeat, gentlemen,” he said, in an ominously low tone, “what of it?” Drummond shrugged his shoulders. There was nothing to replace the all important letter from her father. The intensity of the eyes and the defiant tone bewildered the doctor, who found his well-constructed jeremiad without a platform. Why? Because Howard Spurlock the author dared not risk the liberty of Howard Spurlock the malefactor; because there were still some dregs in this cup of irony. Annabel passed on with a strained nod to her sister, and Sir John’s bow was a miracle of icy displeasure. Looking sullen, he released the handle and sat back.
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