Capes was an exceptionally fair man of two or three-and-thirty, so ruddily blond that it was a mercy he had escaped light eyelashes, and with a minor but by no means contemptible reputation of his own. ‘Yes, like you,’ she snapped, with a venomous glance, her role evidently forgotten for the moment. Unless they remind him now and then not to. The struggles of the wounded man were desperate—so desperate, that in his agony he overset the table, and, in the confusion, tore off the cloth, and disclosed a face horribly mutilated, and streaming with blood. Manning regarded her thoughtfully for a moment and stroked his mustache.
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