" "Your secret?" demanded Trenchard, impatiently. Give me the books. "To-night it is their turn," said Jonathan, binding up his wounded fingers with a handkerchief. ‘Poor Hilary. Ants. Stop it. I'm about to ring for supper. ’ Both Valade and the granddaughter gazed at him blankly. But once he had steered the lady down the hall and along a passage to a window seat at the end, he abandoned the subject of society. There was a tearing sound and the cloth of her habit ripped apart as the smothered point drove through it, missing its intended target.
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