“Thank you, Martin,” she replied graciously. She sat in deep thought for a moment or two, and then nodding briskly, dipped the pen in the ink again and began to write. “You might at least,” she murmured, “have invented a more romantic reason. I can wield a quarterstaff as well as a prize-fighter, and have beaten Figg himself at the broadsword. Slowly a mirthless and very unpleasant smile dawned upon his face. She sat with him in the courtyard after serving him 20 spiced wine. Perhaps these few words were the first real conscious words he had uttered in days. ” “Do what?” “Oh!—anything. Mr.
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