“Sir John!” Annabel gasped. “Gross. "Bravo!" cried the thief-taker approvingly. A chill rain thrummed against the sides of John’s car, having slowed from deluge to steady patter, the snow was 158 dissolved where it lay. He was a thin old man, a wreck in a ruined body, but nothing would induce him to stand in any other way than as stiffly erect as possible like the soldier he had always been, even though he was obliged to lean on his silver-handled cane to do so. “But—your people!” she gasped. ‘Move, you. She was still good at following orders. ’ ‘Your plan, then. What in the world was the wench up to now? For it must be she.
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