At this juncture, a cry was raised by a servant from below, that the robbers were flying through the garden. Outside stood a stocky, combat boot-clad girl of seventeen with a teased mass of spiky bottle-black hair. There was an eerie sense of brooding menace about an uninhabited establishment. But a middle-aged man like Ramage ought to know better than to draw out a girl, the daughter of a friend and neighbor. “I want a plain word with you about all this. “There is no remedy, girls,” she began, breathlessly, “except the Vote. Sometimes—a lonely forlorn child—she had gone to him and put her arms around his neck.
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