Jack tried it, and found it locked. The vault, in which Sir Rowland found himself, resembled in some measure the cabin of a ship. She put out her hands to avoid his embrace. For the face under her gaze she could find but one expression—fine. "My coat!" he repeated, his glance burning into hers. He worked afternoons, when everybody else went to sleep; he worked at night under a heat-giving light, with insects buzzing and dropping about, with a blue haze of tobacco smoke that tried to get out and could not. "Mother—dear mother! Once again, I beseech you to listen to me.
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