My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. ” “And the people?” Brendon asked. “Oh, yes,” the stranger remarked good-humouredly. If he died, here in this hotel, who would care? Or if she died, who would care? A queer desire blossomed in her heart: to go to him, urge him to see the folly of trying to forget. ’ Then Hilary became serious again. “It’s like this,” he said, and dragged a stool beside her and sat down with his elbow four inches from hers and made a sketch. Jack appealed to the new auditors, and again detailed his story, but with no better success than heretofore.
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