” “I could have said more. 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. You must keep out of the way till it's blown over. ‘It is to say goodbye, you understand. ” She took the pocket-book and looked up at him with a little impulsive movement. It would be useless to tell her to go back, even heartless; and yet he could not advise her to go on, blindly, not knowing whether her aunt was dead or alive. Her fingers closed upon it instinctively. ‘Lord,’ Gerald uttered, his inexplicable annoyance evaporating. He cherished her. It was Sunday evening—a soft delicious evening, and, from the happy, cheerful look of the house, none would have dreamed of the dismal tragedy so lately acted within its walls.
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