“I remember,” she said, “that the first night I saw you, you spoke of my sister as your friend. But—but how?’ ‘Can you write?’ Gerald asked, digging into one of his capacious pockets and bringing out a leather ring purse. But it don't much matter—though he's a devilish shrewd fellow, and might have helped me out of a difficulty, had any occurred. Go to her, I say, and take her in your arms, you poor benighted Ironsides! I can't make you see. "I don't know how it is," he added in a low voice to Thames, as they were left alone, "but I've a strange foreboding of ill. " And, as if to make the moral more obvious, a dirty pack of cards was scattered, underneath, upon the sawdust. .
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