Chapter XXX SIR JOHN’S NECKTIE Sir John, in a quiet dark travelling suit, was sitting in a pokey little room writing letters. In the obscurity in which it was now seen, it looked like a prison, and, indeed, it was Jonathan's fancy to make it resemble one as much as possible. You have neither reason nor logic. . ’ ‘But I have told you I have not another dagger, even a little one. For a while they stood there, silent, motionless, staring at the doorway where still a few strings of the bamboo curtain swayed and twisted, agitated by the Wastrel's passage. ‘If you care for me at all, shoot me. I thought you understood. I have said your life is in danger, Thames. It is no fault of your own that you are not at this moment standing there with your head blown off. "Your health, Kneebone.
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