My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. The girl was in the game now, and that narrowed the circle. He dissected rather awkwardly and hurriedly, but, on the whole, effectively, and drew with an impatient directness that made up in significance what it lacked in precision. Did he intend to kill her now, this instant? Or had she a moment or two to try to save herself? Recalling Leonardo’s dictum, she did not struggle, for that would only tighten the trap about her, and perhaps even spring it. “I don’t see there’s any getting away from the fact that you and I love each other,” he said, slowly. ’ Miss Froxfield regarded him in some interest. He handed Ruth a letter. He cherished her. And the woollen-draper departed. He was an odd one, especially for a young man. Her whole conduct and tone had been modest and ladylike. After all, why need one look down.
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