“Why, among other things, did I put my knuckles in his neck—deliberately to hurt him?” She tried to sound the humorous note. The chromatic fiction with which he relieved his mind glanced but slightly at this aspect of life, and never with any quality of guidance. She winced as he thrust the fact at her, was about to answer, and checked herself. Dump instantly complied, and as soon as Jack was removed from the sacred edifice, his person was searched from head to foot—but without success. The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces.
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