A handy knife, and a good tot of something sharp to clean out the wound. It was a large, littered, self-forgetful apartment, decorated with unframed charcoal sketches by various incipient masters; and an open bookcase, surmounted by plaster casts and the half of a human skull, displayed an odd miscellany of books—Shaw and Swinburne, Tom Jones, Fabian Essays, Pope and Dumas, cheek by jowl. ’ ‘There is no need for this,’ he ventured mildly, and lifted his finger to show his own pistol was not cocked. Perhaps Ferringhall has pensioned her off.
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