His fingers closed upon her hand. Whenever McClintock had guests, he loafed with them on the west veranda in the morning. Concealed among the trees that edged the estate grounds, the watchers paused. To his consternation, she was holding an unwieldy, ugly-looking pistol, all wood and tarnished steel, with both hands about the butt. The knots and broken pale that made the garden-fence scalable, and gave access to the fields behind, were still to be traced. ‘What a catalogue. ‘I have said it is not stolen,’ snapped Melusine indignantly.
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