Chapter XXII AN OLD FOOL Lady Ferringhall made room for him on the sofa by her side. “No, the only person I told before tonight was my mother and father. Her eyelids fluttered with recognition, and she cried out softly. A good deal of the food will be in tins. Totally disregarding the pain, he picked up the nail, and reserved it for future use. What a pity! For all her ignorance of material things—the human inventions which served the physical comforts of man—how much she knew about man himself! She had seen him bereft of all those spiritual props which permit man to walk on two feet instead of four—broken, without resilience. His obtuse hands punched and jabbed at her uselessly, then he throttled her neck with the last of his strength. Shotbolt," cried the turnkey, "I've good news for you. I dared not sing, I dared not laugh, except when you went away. "Stay!" cried Wood, "this is a most perplexing business—if you really are privy to the affair——" "We'll talk of it to-morrow, Sir," returned Jackson, cutting him short.
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