She stood there with white set face and nervously clenched fingers. A pity you did not think to tell me that part of the tale at the outset. At this moment, the landlord of the Crown, a jovial-looking stout personage, with a white apron round his waist, issued from the house, bearing a large wooden bowl filled with ale, which he offered to Jack, who instantly rose to receive it. While he was straining every sinew, his foot slipped, and he fell, head foremost, into a deep trench, which he had not observed in the dark. To have sprung this upon them to-night would have been worth a thousand pounds. Her feathered hat fell from her head and down her back, and she felt fingers writhing in the mass of her hair and caressing the flesh of her neck beneath so that she shivered uncontrollably. ‘You make a game with me, I think. Your time isn't come yet.
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