Chapter XXII AN OLD FOOL Lady Ferringhall made room for him on the sofa by her side. He came to her and stood before her, waiting, the morning light dazzling his eyes. It was at his side below the breast, hidden by the dark colour of his close-fitting jacket. He had a narrow escape, however; for, passing within an inch of him, the bullet burried itself deeply in the wall. . ’ ‘Yes,’ she agreed, but her manner was a degree less warm. As it was, my oldest and trustiest setter, Abraham Mendez, received a blow on the head from one of the lads that will deprive me of his services for a week to come,—if, indeed it does not disable him altogether.
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