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. Not that there had ever been any hope of that. She gave tongue to the most urgent of her plaints. “This,” he exclaimed, “must be either the indifference of an utterly callous nature, or it may be—ye gods, it may be—innocence. The honey on his tongue turned to ashes. Jack's life hangs on your determination.
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