" "Stick the spike into him, then," returned Sheppard, coolly, "while I unbar the outlet. My foster mother, Sheila, insists that I go to St. His glance swept up again and found her staring at him with much of her usual defiance, if a touch less of her customary assurance. She had prepared herself to meet violent protest, a recurrence of that burning glance. He was keen to get to work, but the inspiration would not come. Then she sat down—uninvited— and looked from one to the other curiously. Occasionally he would lean back and stare at the window which gave upon the sea. . ’ ‘But, Hilary—’ ‘Don’t you begin, Lucilla, for I won’t stand for it. Until that moment, Jarvis had imagined the child to be safe in the wet-nurse’s cottage.
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