His guardian angel warned Spurlock to speak carefully. “Sir John!” Annabel gasped. Besides—there is Sir John. How can he help you?” She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpetmerchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music. Without betraying the slightest confusion, or making a single remark, he quietly resumed his seat. A new inexplicable madness that urged him to shrill ironically the story of his coat—to take it off and fling it at the feet of any stranger who chanced to be nigh.
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