‘Lord,’ Gerald uttered, his inexplicable annoyance evaporating. Spurlock had better stick to the bungalow. It just made me mad to the boiling point. She staggered to the fireplace and thrust it into the heart of the dying flames. But if I escape, my gratitude—" "Pshaw!" interrupted Jonathan, scornfully. But we were both pledged to secrecy, and I couldn’t reveal my part for fear that I would lose my place. Widgett was a journalist and art critic, addicted to a greenish-gray tweed suit and “art” brown ties; he smoked corncob pipes in the Avenue on Sunday morning, travelled third class to London by unusual trains, and openly despised golf.
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