“Permit me to offer you the English paper which has just arrived, Sir John,” he said, holding out a Daily Telegraph. The salt air was fresher than the stale air in the manor. Here was the corner-stone of a capital story; but he knew that Howard Spurlock would never write it. ‘No sense in snooping about down here,’ Gerald whispered. The road from Surbiton and Epsom ran under the arch, and, like a bright fungoid growth in the ditch, there was now appearing a sort of fourth estate of little redand-white rough-cast villas, with meretricious gables and very brassy windowblinds.
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