He heard the woman talking again. Italians. ‘You won’t get a thing out of her. No pistols, no daggers today?’ ‘Would you have me show a pistol with so many soldiers? I am not a fool. ‘You ought to be glad someone cares enough about your wretched little neck to try and save it. "Thank Heaven!" she gasped. Or had she, like himself, been held up until the fellow returned to town? He waited, his ready humour anticipating her likely reaction. “Your friend, “DAVID COURTLAW. ” She went as far as her door, then turned to the window. They were a dull grey, but the dark frizzed hair that framed her face was attractive.
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