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Consternation gripped him. ‘You do not use your head, Emile,’ she said flatly. In one grave, mind. Twice he cleaned the old briar; still there was no improvement. Her secret thoughts made some hasty, half-hearted excursions into the possibility of telling the thing in romantic tones—Ramage was as a black villain, she as a white, fantastically white, maiden. “I brought a man with me who is posted outside,” he remarked. But there's a person in the hall—a very odd sort of man—waiting to see him, who won't be sent away. ’ Speeding down the two flights of stairs, Gerald mentally thanked God that it was the practice of himself and Roding—in case of emergency, of which this was a prime example—to stable their horses at the posting inns all the way to London.
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