The sun was setting in spectacular multicolored streams beyond Whitefield Park. "You're not hurt I hope, Sir Rowland?" inquired this individual. Without a word or a gesture, the Wastrel turned and staggered forth, out of the orbit of these two, having been thrust into it for a single purpose already described. Slowly she released the hammer on the pistol, uncocking it, and Gerald became conscious that he had been holding his breath. He dissected rather awkwardly and hurriedly, but, on the whole, effectively, and drew with an impatient directness that made up in significance what it lacked in precision. Half an hour's labour, during which he was obliged more than once to pause to regain breath, sufficed to make a hole wide enough to allow a passage for his arm up to the elbow. Nothing like the direct approach, she thought. She smiled at the sight of him, and thereat his radiation increased. ‘Precisely.
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