Behind her stood Caliban, chuckling to himself, and grinning from ear to ear. ‘Comment? What do you wish?’ ‘What the devil do you think you’re up to now, I’d like to know?’ Her eyes flashed. There lay upon this stand a book bound in limp black leather—the Holy Bible. 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.
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