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‘I’ll play you at your own game,’ he growled, holding the foreshortened foil in place with rigid control. Pragmar, the wholesale druggist, who lived three gardens away, and who had been mowing his lawn to get an appetite for dinner, standing in a fascinated attitude beside the forgotten lawn-mower and watching her intently. The dusky obscurity of the room was twice welcome. One must be on guard. In a side-glance—for the floor was variously encumbered with overturned objects—he saw one of his paper weights, a coloured glass ball such as McClintock used in trade. Melusine came in, picked up the lantern, and heard the library door bang open just as the panel clicked closed behind her.
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