’ ‘Only in hot blood, eh?’ grinned Gerald. Meysey Hill—never your wife. ‘But I have the pistol,’ Gerald pointed out. ’ Lucilla eyed him with one of those particularly feminine looks it was difficult for a mere male to interpret. Shortly to be executed. Yet her aunt, with a ringed hand flitting to her lips and a puzzled, worried look in her eyes, deaf to all this riot of warmth and flitting desire, was playing Patience—playing Patience, as if Dionysius and her curate had died together. But all that could be ascertained in the village was, that a man had ridden off a short time before in the direction of London.
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