He stood upon the threshold, dangling his eye-glasses in his fingers, stolid, imperturbable, mildly interrogative. “Hotel Ritz,” he said mechanically to the coachman. In a moment the brisk evening breeze caught the lank canvas and bellied it taut. He wanted to put on his overcoat and come after you and look for you—in London. The washerwoman reported that she had seen a man one day riding out for an early morning hunt, but was unsure of his identity. "He must be somewhere hereabouts," cried one of the horsemen, dismounting. "No; it's only a fresh gale," Ben returned: "hark! now it comes. That was something in his favour. "So, wanton, I have found you!" "Wanton! Why, you infernal liar!" cried Spurlock, striking at the arm. We're lost. CHAPTER XVIII. ‘Hang it all, Mrs Sindlesham is right! You are two of a kind. His aunt, here at McClintock's? It was unbelievable.
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