The gun flew from his hand, clacking on the floor. How can he help you?” She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpetmerchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music. "I love you like a son, and will follow you like a dog. And I've already told you the accident was not Jack's fault. “I am so sorry to have startled you,” she said, “but I was startled myself. But at length, there was a click, and with a swish, the panel of painted books swung outward from the wall.
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