“Is your husband here to-night?” he asked. They talked across their meal in an easy and friendly manner about Ann Veronica’s affairs. ‘But how do you come here?’ ‘Down on a routine patrol, unluckily for you,’ he answered grimly. To simplify matters, he carried a coloured paper lantern upon which his license number was painted in Arabic numerals. It was his mother, and as he gazed on her pallid features and motionless frame, Jack's heart severely smote him. She gulped for air merely, for it had been difficult to breathe with his hand almost cutting off the supply to her lungs. “Neither you nor I, Nigel, are made of such stuff,” she answered. Still, he was puzzled because McClintock had not spoken.
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