‘What is the matter?’ ‘Is there nothing you do not know?’ she asked faintly. ” “I’m afraid it can’t. Outside the post-office stood a nohatted, blond young man in gray flannels, who was elaborately affixing a stamp to a letter. No further responsibility whatever. I couldn’t help the thought. Annabel passed on with a strained nod to her sister, and Sir John’s bow was a miracle of icy displeasure. The ruffian's companions took his part. It was still too dark for reading, but she could see well enough to note the number of the last page—fifty-six. ’ ‘Who’s bleeding to death?’ demanded Trodger. “My mind is full of confused stuff,” he said at length. For a moment O'Higgins had hoped that the ink applications would be recent. Had it come already? Chapter XXVII JOHN FERRINGHAM, GENTLEMAN “Confess, my dear husband,” Annabel said lightly, “that you are bewildered.
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