She tiptoed to the stand and gathered up the manuscripts which she carried to a chair by the window. “There is no—Good God!” he exclaimed. Mr. It was Ennison who for the rest of his visit was quiet and subdued. A snarl contorted his features, and he marched up to it, laying his pistol down on the marquetry table so that his hands were free to grab the picture off the wall. Under his arm he carried a thick, knotted crab-stick. Annabel ignored both the chair and the invitation. She sensed he might try and wane on her doorstep.
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