The pole-chair caravan resumed its journey. . ’ ‘I don’t, as a matter of fact,’ Gerald said decidedly, a frown creasing his brow. There was a stain of wine upon her dress. There sat Jack, evidently in the last stage of intoxication, with his collar opened, his dress disarranged, a pipe in his mouth, a bowl of punch and a halfemptied rummer before him,—there he sat, receiving and returning, or rather attempting to return,—for he was almost past consciousness,—the blandishments of a couple of females, one of whom had passed her arm round his neck, while the other leaned over the back of his chair and appeared from her gestures to be whispering soft nonsense into his ear. That won’t involve references, as a bank account would—and all that sort of thing. ‘One thing at a time, missie. ‘But the major—’ ‘The major can say nothing at all. Sepulchre's. “Hey sis!” He cried drunkenly. These fellows must be right,” he added thoughtfully, “and yet—there’s a mystery somewhere.
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