There was a discreet knocking at the door, and Ramage’s face changed. Then she would be dead, and that was no use. To-day he selected the girl, and gave her the lead-chair. Annabel entered. The folds of a thick muslin neckcloth in some degree protected him, but the gash was desperate. Satisfied with his scrutiny, he produced a pocket-flask, and taking off the silver cup with which it was mounted, filled it with the contents of the flask, and then seizing the thin arm of the sleeper, rudely shook it. She was suddenly grave. The chair was torture.
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