She turned into the study, sat down at the table and fingered the pencils, curiously stirred. " "Gem'men o' the votch!" cried Sharples, as loudly as a wheezy cough would permit him, "my noble pris'ner—ough! ough;—the Markis o' Slaughterford ——" Further speech was cut short by a volley of execrations from the angry guardians of the night. Gerald’s temper flared. A long shrill cat-call in the gallery seemed to be the signal. She had been carrying them, he assumed, but then again the school had some particularly talented kids among the usual ruffians. All that confidence, born of irony, disappeared; and fear laid hold of him. He trembled, not from any superstitious dread, but from an undefined sense of approaching danger.
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