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Annabel passed on with a strained nod to her sister, and Sir John’s bow was a miracle of icy displeasure. For a long time even the strong pipe tobacco (with which McClintock supplied him) possessed a coconut flavour. “I have no wish,” he said, “to altogether ignore the fact that you are my wife’s sister, and have therefore a certain claim upon me. You’re a good friend. Now, Sir. He had now reached what was called the Lower Leads,—a flat, covering a part of the prison contiguous to the gateway, and surrounded on all sides by walls about fourteen feet high. What the devil is her name, now we know she isn’t you?’ ‘Yolande,’ supplied Melusine.

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