This is my last week at the ‘Unusual,’ you know. It was fastened inside. The young rascal had learnt from some of the women-servants that Lady Trafford was from home, and was in the very act of making off when I got down stairs. The grate was full of fluttering ashes of burnt paper, and the easy chair near the fire had evidently been used. “You seem to be taking our little joke more seriously than it deserves, Ferringhall,” he remarked. His gray eyes were closed, his persimmon-colored lips open and panting. I know why. Panic leapt into his eyes as he brought his wrist up just in time to parry the blade. " "Jack!" cried Thames, in indignant surprise. .
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