"Oh! they are—are they?" muttered Jack, triumphantly; "that'll do. God send the fellow did turn out to be a spy! Beckoning Roding on, Gerald crept down the corridor towards the source of the swishing he had heard. He was a Wiltshire Edmondshaw, a very old family. He wore a silk hat a little tilted, and a morning coat buttoned round a tight, contained figure; and a white slip gave a finish to his costume and endorsed the quiet distinction of his tie. ‘It had better not be, by God,’ had barked Captain Hilary Roding. Conscience was always digging sudden pits for his feet and common sense ridiculing his fears.
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