Chapter XXII AN OLD FOOL Lady Ferringhall made room for him on the sofa by her side. “I do not suppose he will be home till late. She told you —the truth. Hill, I hope you won’t find everything cold. My nerves were in rags. Traci moved out to L. " "We shall have a durty night on it, to a sartinty, landlord," observed an old oneeyed sailor, who sat smoking his pipe by the fire-side. The vast heap of rubbish on the floor had been so materially increased by the bricks and plaster thrown down in his attack upon the wall of the Red Room, that it was with some difficulty he could find the blanket which was almost buried beneath the pile. David Courtlaw—Sir John Ferringhall. —Though if my name should become as famous as theirs, it wouldn't much matter.
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