“You’ve got my view,” he said, after a pensive second. A new inexplicable madness that urged him to shrill ironically the story of his coat—to take it off and fling it at the feet of any stranger who chanced to be nigh. ‘Who’d believe me? And I’d have to tell my part in it all, too. It is necessary. A snarl contorted his features, and he marched up to it, laying his pistol down on the marquetry table so that his hands were free to grab the picture off the wall. For a time he and Miss Klegg contradicted one another. David Courtlaw—Sir John Ferringhall.
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