The evening breeze came; the bamboo shades on the veranda clicked and rasped; the loose edges of the manuscript curled. She was clad in fresh linen, but still wore the riding-habit she had appropriated, having sponged out the spots of blood late last night and left it to dry in the kitchens. ‘Oh, Lord,’ muttered Gerald, going instantly to her aid. It was well for him that he had taken his place by Sheppard, as regard for the latter alone prevented the deadliest missiles being hurled at him. This time they would call it murder. That Frenchie, that’s who she is.
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