Chapter XXX SIR JOHN’S NECKTIE Sir John, in a quiet dark travelling suit, was sitting in a pokey little room writing letters. “Annabel;” he moaned. “What do you mean?” she asked. Not daring, however, to listen to it, he ran on. “Don’t be childish, Annabel. All this muddle to placate his conscience! "Here—quick!" McClintock thrust a cigar into Spurlock's hand. Then he sat down and filled his pipe slowly and thoughtfully. Here he found another strong door, making the fifth he had encountered. I felt—wrapped in thick cobwebs. ‘Do you mean to tell me,’ enquired the captain at length, ‘that you have had the infernal audacity, the—the gall, the—the— Gad, it’s an outrage! You’ve stolen a horse from a priest?’ ‘I did not steal it,’ protested Melusine hotly. So, in broken, rather breathless phrases, he told his story; and when he had done, he laid his arms upon the table and bent his head to them.
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