“Would you wait for me?” Manning was silent for a space. He moved, after quiet intervals, with a quick little movement, and ever and again stroked his small mustache and coughed a selfconscious cough. Too easily roused emotions and too little passion. “Take off your tunic. He hasn't found himself, as they say. What's it like, Joan?" "It's a small key, with curiously-fashioned wards. Drenched to the skin,—in fact, he had been lying in a bed of muddy water,—and chilled to the very bone, he felt so stiff, that he could scarcely move. ‘You mean that his missus is pretending to be my mistress? Lord-a-mercy!’ ‘Precisely.
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