A young lad—Roding took him for a footman, or a groom by the neat black garb—was halted some paces away from Valade, his hat in his hand as he made pretence of fanning himself. Satisfied with his scrutiny, he produced a pocket-flask, and taking off the silver cup with which it was mounted, filled it with the contents of the flask, and then seizing the thin arm of the sleeper, rudely shook it. She said she hoped she had not distressed him by the course she had felt obliged to take, and he told her not to be a fool. " He held out his dry hard hand into which she placed hers. Still—I don’t know whether I quite like—Something ramshackle about those people, Vee.
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