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Shall I send him to Sir John?” Annabel was white to the lips, but her anger was not yet spent. On the right, stood a bulky figure, with a broken rattle hanging out of his great-coat pocket, who held up a lantern to his battered countenance to prove to the spectators that both his orbs of vision were darkened: on the left, a meagre constable had divested himself of his shirt, to bind up with greater convenience a gaping cut in the arm. She stared. Kimble had bedded the animal down at the local inn. “Your sister’s future is at stake.

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