It was his redemption, his ticket out of hell—that blue-serge coat. "Here's one of the thieves, Sir Rowland!" cried the attendant. Mere formality. "Jack's a desperate fellow, and is always well armed; besides, he has a comrade with him. ‘Oh, Lord,’ muttered Gerald, going instantly to her aid. Probably a sick man's whim. Still he had a decent look, and decidedly the air of one well-to-do in the world. The ball passed over his head, and lodged in the ceiling. Then Mr. "I dare not, Rowland," she answered. But the objects in his range of vision remained unchanged. His sword then came in for his scrutiny: he felt at, and appeared satisfied with its edge. Beneath the serene unconcern of Ann Veronica’s face was a boiling tumult.
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