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“You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. ” Nigel Ennison looked up with a little start. To-morrow I'll wire Cook's and the American Express in Hong-Kong to see if there is any mail. The odd creak was not to be avoided in an old house such as this. She had decided that she would spend the next morning answering advertisements in the papers that abounded in the writing-room; and so, after half an hour’s perusal of back numbers of the Sketch in the drawingroom, she had gone to bed. But I can tell you who'll have the pleasure of hanging your father's son; and that's a person not a hundred miles distant from you at this moment—ha! ha!" As he said this, the door was opened, and Charcam entered, accompanied by a dwarfish, shabby-looking man, in a brown serge frock, with coarse Jewish features, and a long red beard.

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