“If one half of the stories about Meysey Hill are true,” he answered, “I would not stretch out my little finger to save his life. How can he help you?” She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpetmerchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music. ‘You had better kill me, mademoiselle, because otherwise I shall end by strangling you. “You needn’t be anxious about that! I shall contrive to live. One with the appearance of a bald little gnome yawned agonizingly.
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