He still watched her and questioned her. Her aunt was blandly amiable above a certain tremulous undertow, and talked as if to a caller about the alarming spread of marigolds that summer at the end of the garden, a sort of Yellow Peril to all the smaller hardy annuals, while her father brought some papers to table and presented himself as preoccupied with them. He hadn't followed this angle of thought in ten years: what he might have been, with a little shrewd selfishness. "In my opinion," remarked Kneebone, "it doesn't matter how soon society is rid of two such scoundrels; and if Blueskin dies by the rope, and Jonathan by the hand of violence, they'll meet the fate they merit. "Oh! they are—are they?" muttered Jack, triumphantly; "that'll do. I wonder if I should have locked you up if I’d been your father. Somebody to depend upon her; somebody to have need of her, if only for a little while.
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