" "Vy don't you talk to your partner, or Saint Giles, if you vant conversation, Aaron?" asked Jack, slyly. " "Not unless your skull's bullet-proof," cried a voice at his elbow; and, as the words were uttered, a pistol was snapped at his head, which,—fortunately or unfortunately, as the reader pleases,—only burnt the priming. Never had he corrected her with hand or whip, the ring in his voice had always been sufficient to cower her. He kept at it even on those nights when the monsoon began to break with heavy storms and he had to weight down with stones everything on his table. And, anyhow, it doesn’t matter to us. Why, is the question I would like answered. Presently he heard her voice. She released her clutch on it as, dizzy with exhaustion, she leaned against the back of the pew and closed her eyes, her fingers grasping out automatically for support.
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