’ Gerald stood back, and watched her cross the room to the closed French doors. Annabel lounged in her chair with a sort of insolent abandon in her pose, and wide-open eyes which never flinched or drooped. Nigel Ennison was he. The windows were still darkened—perhaps she was not home yet. She made herself a private declaration of liberty. ‘Do you mean to tell me,’ enquired the captain at length, ‘that you have had the infernal audacity, the—the gall, the—the— Gad, it’s an outrage! You’ve stolen a horse from a priest?’ ‘I did not steal it,’ protested Melusine hotly.
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