Gay, was a stout, good-looking, good-humoured man, about thirty-six, with a dark complexion, an oval face, fine black eyes, full of fire and sensibility, and twinkling with roguish humour—an expression fully borne out by the mouth, which had a very shrewd and sarcastic curl. Presently he felt motion. “He dissembles,” he said. She wished her father and aunt would not enjoy their dinner with such quiet determination. The pause lengthened, and he had the satisfaction of seeing despair melt the set mockery of Spurlock's mouth. Lucy had just began to invoke a solace where John was concerned, doing her best to shelve him as not so special after all. “Then either this man shot himself or some one else shot him immediately before your arrival—or rather if it was not himself the person who did it was in the room, say two minutes, before you arrived. You have the look in your eyes to-night which you had that day, the look of a frightened child. The women, Ann Veronica thought, were not quite so interesting as the men. In the floor were set four ring-bolts, about nine feet apart.
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