“But Sir John?” he exclaimed. Earles waiting. He was alert, well-groomed, and yet—perhaps in contrast with the more volatile French type—there was a suggestion of weight about him, not to say heaviness. Then Manning flopped back in his chair and dropped his chin like a man shot. How can he help you?” She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpetmerchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music. In seconds, they faced each other before the altar. There it was—to be borrowed. “You are a thousand times more beautiful,” he said, “than anything else could be. He flung open the door and cast a quick glance round.
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