13 with a latchkey went humming lightly up to her room. But Spurlock was ever on guard, even when she fussed over his hair. Hilary could not have suggested such a thing. “Sir John!” Annabel gasped. And then suddenly—a relief. He will tell you confidentially that he simply hates the place. There was a gulf of eight years between her and the youngest of her brace of sisters—an impassable gulf inhabited chaotically by two noisy brothers. He fancied that the turnkeys had discovered his flight and were in pursuit of him,—that they had climbed up the chimney,—entered the Red Room,— tracked him from door to door, and were now only detained by the gate which he had left unbroken in the chapel. The Master of the Mint. “Shot through the lungs,” he remarked. Could you just let me in? I have a surprise for him.
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