"Yes, sir," said McClintock, as he sat down; "that's South Sea stuff, that yarn of yours. But you, Ferringhall, our pattern, an erstwhile Sheriff of London, a county magistrate, a prospective politician, a sober and an upright man, one who, had he aspired to it, might even have filled the glorious position of Lord Mayor— James, a whisky and Apollinaris at once. “It does nothing but sit there. We aren’t worth it. Stop it!” Anna stepped back bewildered, but the man held out his arms to her. Do you know this, Sir?" he added, taking a key from his pocket.
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