" "Aye," said McClintock, in a tone so peculiar that it sent Spurlock's glance to his plate. 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. ‘Nevertheless, he will neither help me, nor will I seek his help. ‘What in God’s name is going on?’ Glancing swiftly towards the doorway, Gerald saw his friend’s disbelieving face and burst out, speaking over the top of Melusine as she made another grab for the little square of linen. Huge trees obscured the view of it. He was also, had she known it, more than a little insincere.
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