And see!" he added, as the figures drew back, and the lights disappeared; "it's a false alarm. Spurlock: 'tis Roundhead, sure enough. He was shifting to reach his own weapon, which had fallen in between the pews at the back. But you, Ferringhall, our pattern, an erstwhile Sheriff of London, a county magistrate, a prospective politician, a sober and an upright man, one who, had he aspired to it, might even have filled the glorious position of Lord Mayor— James, a whisky and Apollinaris at once. Just an idea of mine. "My plan is a very simple one," rejoined the thief-taker smiling bitterly. To Spurlock's observing eye, Enschede's wrinkles multiplied and the folds in his clothes.
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