Why can’t you let it be?’ Gerald grinned at him. Nigel Ennison was he. Not many years ago, two men, employed on this duty, quarrelled during the night, and in the morning their bodies were found stretched upon the pavement of the yard beneath. ‘Good God! Everett Charvill, as I live. It was debauching, this—a devilish art which drew such strange allurements from a face and figure almost Madonna-like in their simplicity. He looked fiercely and inquiringly from one to the other of his companions; but, though both of them were excessively frightened, neither appeared guilty. .
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