In the distance a barrel-organ was grinding out a pot pourri of popular airs. “Sir John!” Annabel gasped. She came along with the fluttering assurance of some tall ship. Somebody may be on the watch—perhaps, that old ginger-hackled Jew. She fell with a plop onto her rear end in the mud and sat dumbly like a statue, water eddying around her. Wood, glancing angrily at her husband. I dared not sing, I dared not laugh, except when you went away. ‘Well, this maid,’ went on Kimble eagerly, ‘and me, we gets to talking, see, and that’s how I knew he were off to this party.
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