It was a haunted place. "Why, first," rejoined Austin, "there's Sir James Thornhill, historical painter to his Majesty, and the greatest artist of the day. ‘In that case, he is probably already dead, and you have nothing to worry about. ‘Um—begging your pardon, sir, but—um—what was you meaning to arrest the young lady for?’ ‘Trespassing, theft, and suspicion of spying,’ announced Roding fluently. He leaned forward to embrace her. Jack had got into one of the pens at the north side of the chapel. Aren't we funny? And just as I was beginning to lose faith in human beings, to have someone like this come along! It is almost as if she were acting a rôle, and she isn't.
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