His cigar burnt out between his fingers, and he threw it impatiently away. There was a pause, and then the front door slammed. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. Standing over the pierced Rhea, Lucy bayed, a long cry that was half-scream and half-howl. I hid because there was no other way of seeing you. The only circumstance which served to awaken a darker feeling in his breast was, that his implacable foe Jonathan Wild had survived the wound inflicted by Blueskin, and was slowly recovering. “You know,” he went on, “this doesn’t seem to me to end anything.
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