" "I didn't want it," replied Jack; "but who are those gentlemen?" "Friends of yours," replied Figg; "come to see you;—Sir James Thornhill, Mr. Earles himself stood upon the threshold of his sanctum, the prototype of the smart natty Jew, with black hair, waxed moustache, and a wired flower in his button-hole. If she had once known him, if he were some former neighbour, it would be comprehensible. I've just left your nephew. Her gaze flickered down to his pistol. It would be protective; it would with age turn to silver unnoticeably. She handled it half fearfully, and set it carefully down again. But it was of no avail. She had animated dark blue-gray eyes under her fine eyebrows, and dark brown hair that rolled back simply and effectively from her broad low forehead. "Neither man nor woman shall apply that term to me.
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