The young officer sat in front, his hat perfectly straight. “Think how dumb we find ourselves and stifled! I know we seem to have a sort of freedom. The detective rapidly sketched the appearance of the room in his notebook, and picked up the pistol from under the table. But you, Ferringhall, our pattern, an erstwhile Sheriff of London, a county magistrate, a prospective politician, a sober and an upright man, one who, had he aspired to it, might even have filled the glorious position of Lord Mayor— James, a whisky and Apollinaris at once. "Close the wicket, Austin," vociferated Ireton, in an authoritative tone.
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