CHAPTER XXXI. ‘Good, good—and not before time,’ muttered Roding, glancing round again. "Hell-hounds!" he cried; "release me!" At the same moment, Quilt Arnold rushed forward with such haste, that, stumbling over William Morgan, he precipitated him into the grave. ’ ‘Never mind the comtesse,’ adjured Prudence. He had not bothered to take off his raincoat and his umbrella sat dripping on his modern ice cube of a table. The second is to somehow meet Lady Ferringhall. ’ An expression of livid fury contorted the young man’s face and he thrust the coins back at the major.
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