"You'd better surrender quietly, Jack," he cried; "you've no chance. But you, Ferringhall, our pattern, an erstwhile Sheriff of London, a county magistrate, a prospective politician, a sober and an upright man, one who, had he aspired to it, might even have filled the glorious position of Lord Mayor— James, a whisky and Apollinaris at once. Puffy blue curtains dressed every oakstained window. The psychic vibration of him thickened the air of the room as if he were already inside. While they were still engaged in looking round the doctor returned with a nurse and assistant.
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