Chapter XI THE PUZZLEMENT OF NIGEL ENNISON Nigel Ennison walked towards his club the most puzzled man in London. He had had five children at irregular intervals, of whom Ann Veronica was the youngest, so that as a parent he came to her perhaps a little practised and jaded and inattentive; and he called her his “little Vee,” and patted her unexpectedly and disconcertingly, and treated her promiscuously as of any age between eleven and eight-and-twenty. Nothing disheartened by this survey, Jack set to work upon the lock, which he attacked with all his implements;—now attempting to pick it with the nail;— now to wrench it off with the bar: but all without effect. Not a word passed between them. ‘Very well, Kimble. Mere hangers on. "No Blueskin, I perceive, Sir," he observed, in a deferential tone, as Wild entered the Lodge. For a time Spurlock did not move. She looked away. My nerves are shaken. Michelle ate fast, and Lucy followed her lead, shoveling mashed potatoes and salmon down her gullet in a passionless frenzy. And God had let him do it! He was—and now he perfectly understood that he was—treading the queerest labyrinth a man had ever entered. For a nun at night it is less dangerous than for the jeune demoiselle.
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