"I'll be his evil genius!" vociferated Jonathan, who seemed to enjoy her torture. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. Give me your staff. First, look at this glove. ‘Oh, my God, she’s gone!’ Wrenching his hand from his friend’s slackened grasp, he darted for the door, Roding behind him. Her eyes filled as she thought of him, the image of his laughing countenance coming into her mind, to be swiftly followed by a vision of the blood running from his cut hand. She was, she guessed, close to the library.
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