Listening on the dimlit landing, he saw Roding’s face muscles tighten. "Always plenty to spare. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. He had not been successful as the world counted success; the fat bank-account, the filled waiting room of which he had once dreamed, had never materialized except in the smoke of his evening pipe. "Promise me that. “Sir John is not at all that sort. Let me put the main question to you now that I could not put the other afternoon. It was not an affair of the conscience; it was vaguely based upon insolence and defiance.
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