My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. A single false step might have precipitated him into the street; or, if he had trodden upon an unsound part of the roof, he must have fallen through it. A militiaman came belting down the stairs, another leapt from outside the front door, and a third, stalwart and stolid, came in through the door that led to the rooms to the front of the house. Ennison listened, and he forgot where he was. “He and I don’t seem to get on at all with our fellow-guests, as Mrs. She leaves town to-morrow.
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