” She smiled at him cheerfully. ‘Because you are a bête, and a pig, and imbecile. How can he help you?” She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpetmerchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music. This was his sister, evidently in the last extremity. ‘Don’t let us quarrel over your Leonardo,’ he said, summoning a faint smile. He resolved to judge for himself. “Only—I have come face to face—with something terrible, and wholly unexpected trouble.
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