She ought to have leapt back on guard. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. ” Like most men who lie but seldom, he lied well. She was dressed in one of those complicated dresses that are all lace and work and confused patternings of black and purple and cream about the body, and she was in many ways a younger feminine version of the same theme as himself. She was perhaps three-and-twenty, and very pink and healthy-looking, showing a great deal of white and rounded neck above her business-like but altogether feminine blouse, and a good deal of plump, gesticulating forearm out of her short sleeve. “A ballot-box, you know,” he said, “is very largely just a box. He then stamped upon the hand on the lower bannister, until that also relaxed its gripe. Wood fancied he recognised.
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