She never grew angry for anything her husband did: such anger as came to her was directed against the lazy, incompetent servant who was always snooping about in the inner temple—Spurlock's study. Even as she watched, the sweat of weakness began to form on his forehead and under the nether lip. Spurlock had sensed what had gone completely over McClintock's head—that this was the playing of a soul in damnation. Every moment or two he bent over his patient. Well, if she survives the accident—as the blood, who styles himself Sir Cecil, fancies she may do—this ring will make my fortune by leading to the discovery of the chief parties concerned in this strange affair. Now that I recall, it probably wasn’t the best source for engineering plans. Blueskin might have butchered you and your brat before I'd have lifted a finger to prevent him, if it hadn't suited my purposes to do so, and he hadn't incurred my displeasure.
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