" "We waste time with this fellow," interposed Sir Cecil, "and may lose the object of our quest, who, beyond doubt, has taken refuge in this building. He swore that I was his wife, and—I shot him, Nigel, as his arms were closing around me. Presently she became aware of footsteps hurrying after her, and glanced back to find Miss Klegg, a little out of breath, in pursuit. These daughters! He gnawed his pen and reflected, tore the sheet up, and began again. I've been hunting for this particular job for a thousand years!" She smiled a little sadly over this fine enthusiasm; for in her wisdom she had a clear perception where it would eventually end—in the veranda chair. A cool gray light illuminated small portions of the stone floor. We middle-aged fools and we old fools can no longer dream.
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