This—’ waving an imperious hand in a sweeping arc about the library ‘—is my house. Sir John and Annabel seated themselves at one of them, and the proprietor himself, a small dark-visaged man, radiant with smiles, came hurrying up, followed by a waiter. Had it come already? Chapter XXVII JOHN FERRINGHAM, GENTLEMAN “Confess, my dear husband,” Annabel said lightly, “that you are bewildered. ” The official had no more to say. “It was just an hour before teatime,” she remarked. Something, I'm convinced, has happened to the boys.
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