It was of no use, she let him do it as she could not be strangled. “Is this hansom for me?” she said. With a cry of triumph, he rose, the sword hilt grasped in his fingers, the point swishing up towards her. Spurling, hastening to the rescue. Cathy threw Mike a look. The fellow swore lustily, in a voice which Jack instantly recognised as that of Quilt Arnold, and vainly attempted to rise and draw his sword. But why this part of the plan now seemed to her quite unattractive was a question she did not care to examine too closely. His glance swept up again and found her staring at him with much of her usual defiance, if a touch less of her customary assurance.
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