Chapter XXII AN OLD FOOL Lady Ferringhall made room for him on the sofa by her side. They were silent and no longer observant, being more or less exhausted by the tedious action of the chairs. It was his mother, and as he gazed on her pallid features and motionless frame, Jack's heart severely smote him. “Well?” she said. Only a book detective could dope this out. But don't thank me; thank Miss Enschede. He let go of the girl’s arm. "Take him home, Saunders," said Sir Rowland, resigning his faulty steed to the attendant's care, "I shall not require you further. .
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