Mrs Sindlesham’s wrinkled cheek had paled, and her eyes were fixed upon Gerald in a look that wrung his heart. " "Not unless your skull's bullet-proof," cried a voice at his elbow; and, as the words were uttered, a pistol was snapped at his head, which,—fortunately or unfortunately, as the reader pleases,—only burnt the priming. “I’ve plenty of pals,” he said, “who, when they’ve been doing Paris on the Q. You care for me a little, I know. ‘Anyhow, never mind that now.
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