“Miss Ellicot!” Brendon echoed. He did not know what her game was, although he had a shrewd suspicion that she had been co-opted into it by her supposed husband, the soi-disant Valade. 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. She crawled underneath the soft white sheets, reclining and pulling the blankets up to her chin. In futur', I'll keep the 'Evenin' Star' for his lordship's enemies.
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