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” Courtlaw rose too. “It was a bad day for me,” he said, speaking slowly and painfully. David Courtlaw—Sir John Ferringhall. “I never planned it—And now I have begun—” She felt acutely that he was entitled to explanations, and as acutely that explanations were impossible that night. Both arm-chairs had been moved a little so as to face each other on either side of the fender, and in the circular glow of the green-shaded lamp there lay, conspicuously waiting, a thick bundle of blue and white papers tied with pink tape. But her cries, instead of moving her assailant's compassion, only added to his fury.

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