It was not an affair of the conscience; it was vaguely based upon insolence and defiance. "Bravo, Poll!" cried Jack, who having again pinioned Shotbolt, was now tracing a few hasty lines on a sheet of paper. “Who will you stop with?” “I shall go on my own. “You heard no pistol-shot?” “None. The attempt was unsuccessful. Well, if she survives the accident—as the blood, who styles himself Sir Cecil, fancies she may do—this ring will make my fortune by leading to the discovery of the chief parties concerned in this strange affair. The two sisters were very fond of one another, I believe. He is Jacques.
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