Annabel laughed a little uneasily. As he lay on his back, he fancied himself gradually slipping off the platform. " "Jack's a noble fellow," exclaimed the head-jailer of Clerkenwell Prison, raising his glass; "and, though he played me a scurvy trick, I'll drink to his speedy deliverance. ‘I left a message at home that he should do so as soon as he returned from Kent. 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. ” The lights were lowered, and an attentive waiter hovered round Anna’s cloak.
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