McClintock stared into the bowl of his pipe and Spurlock into his coffee cup. ‘While you are making me this interrogation, my poor Jacques bleeds to death. He grunted, and his grip gave. He had barely settled at his desk in his library, when he was disturbed by two morning callers. If I could but——” To escape from her thoughts she began to undress, humming a light tune to herself, though her eyes were hot with unshed tears, and the sobs kept rising in her throat. Inhuman as he is, he would not kill her. “Of course,” she said diffidently, “this is a boarding-house, although we never take in promiscuous travellers.
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