"My coat!" he repeated, his glance burning into hers. There were lines in her face that age had not put there. 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. “Yes, I have heard of him, and I know him by sight,” he admitted. She felt this was the sensible way out of this oddly sinister situation. Great sport, eh? To haul them back from the ragged edge.
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