McClintock's heart went out to Spurlock; he would always be the boy's friend, even though he had dragged this girl on to the rocks with him. He leaned towards her, laid his hand tenderly upon hers. “Wild horses—not if they have all the mounted police in London—shan’t keep me out. Then he sat down again in a chair and said that people who wrote novels ought to be strung up. “If it will keep you busy,” he said, with a faintly ironical smile. He was into the passage in time to see her slip into another chamber at the end. I believe that her ladyship is going to Carey House, and on to the Marquis of Waterford’s ball,” he added, hastily consulting a diary on the hall table. The rest were hieroglyphic characters, executed in red chalk and charcoal. Twenty-one, twenty-two. The detective rapidly sketched the appearance of the room in his notebook, and picked up the pistol from under the table.
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