" "Where are the assassins?" cried Sheppard. With me behaving as if everything was infinitely matter-of-fact, what could he do? And just then Heaven sent old Manningtree—I didn’t tell you before of the fortunate intervention of Manningtree, did I? He was looking quite infernally distinguished, with a wide crimson ribbon across him—what IS a wide crimson ribbon? Some sort of knight, I suppose. By policemen one mustn’t shock. On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha.
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