She met his eye for a moment in curious surprise. "Sir Cecil is no 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. On searching the grounds, we found two suspicious-looking fellows in the garden, and had scarcely secured them, when your mother's cries summoned us hither, just in time to preserve her. And they’ll shut the gates presently. “I had to. The house had in fact been converted into a convent, but the fact could not be advertised, not even in the Catholic enclave that existed in this part of town. Her sense followed the shoulders under his coat, down to where his flexible, sensitive-looking hand rested lightly upon the table.
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