He dragged it out, and perceiving, in spite of the decayed frame, that it was the body of Sir Rowland Trenchard, commanded his attendants to convey it up stairs—an order which was promptly obeyed. It was the sing-song girl idea, magnified many diameters. ‘Dare I suppose that to be of her making?’ Gerald flushed. “You’ll have to take her!” shouted an inspector on horseback, and she echoed his cry: “You’ll have to take me!” They seized upon her and lifted her, and she screamed. “Put her in the trunk. But are we any more free?” “Well?” “I mean we’ve long strings to tether us, but we are bound all the same. Gerald saw her eyes change as she recognised him. The evening breeze came; the bamboo shades on the veranda clicked and rasped; the loose edges of the manuscript curled.
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