It was a serene and charming evening, and twilight was gently stealing over the face of the country. “A new admirer, Annabel? But what has that to do with your going to England?” “Everything! He is Sir John Ferringhall—very stupid, very respectable, very egotistical. As soon as the manacles were slipped over the prisoner's wrists, and the new padlock secured to the staple, they withdrew. It hung from the centre of a stout pole, each end of which rested upon the calloused shoulder of a coolie; an ordinary Occidental chair with a foot-rest.
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