A neat tale, giving little away. “I don’t believe there is one. ‘Give me my pistol!’ Gerald shook his head, slipping the pistol into his pocket. I know faces. “What a fool I am!” he muttered, standing up on the hearthrug, and leaning his elbows upon the broad mantelpiece. But me, I am going to England. Here we go, thought Gerald. He was no Hoddy, but a tremendous man, with hairy arms and bearded face and drink-shattered intellect. "God forgive me for using such a word!" he cried, in a troubled tone; "if I hadn't yielded to my wife's silly request, this wouldn't have happened!" CHAPTER VII.
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