"A man!" "At your service, my dear," replied the jailer. "Ay, murder him, if you like the term," returned Wild. There was a murmur or two among the watchers on the bench, but no one ventured to intervene again. The thought passed through his mind even as he started to cross the terrace at a jogtrot, moving to head her off. McClintock watched her interestedly until her golden head vanished below; then, with tolerant pity, he looked down at Spurlock, who had closed his eyes. She required no instructions from books; her wit and beauty were her own. He had thought it might have that effect.
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