A young lad—Roding took him for a footman, or a groom by the neat black garb—was halted some paces away from Valade, his hat in his hand as he made pretence of fanning himself. “You see, I will take your arm. Hitherto you’ve seen only my easy, kindly side. He reached a silver cigar and cigarette box from the sideboard and put it before his father-in-law, and for a time the preliminaries of smoking occupied them both. I’m leaving you, and you can’t stop me. On the bench was set a quartern measure of gin, a crust of bread, and a slice of cheese. CHAPTER XIII. “I got Sydney’s telegram at ten o’clock, and caught the ten-thirty from the Gare du Nord. “A new admirer, Annabel? But what has that to do with your going to England?” “Everything! He is Sir John Ferringhall—very stupid, very respectable, very egotistical.
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