Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. Yet he was in a state of hopeless bewilderment. . His only warning was a gleam of silver in the faint spill of light from the house above. In the distance a bell clanged, and chattering broke out in the doorway as several nuns came crowding in. “I’m sorry. And what took you to Remenham House?’ ‘I shall come to that presently,’ said Gerald cautiously. “My husband!” she laughed a little derisively. Her back had stiffened, and her hazel eyes looked steadfastly ahead.
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