If you'd read your husband's dying speech, you'd know that he laid his death at Jonathan's door,—and with reason too, as I can testify. The fellow swore lustily, in a voice which Jack instantly recognised as that of Quilt Arnold, and vainly attempted to rise and draw his sword. These little squares of coloured paper interested her mightily—hotel labels. She was clear there were no other minds like them in all the world. She guessed Jack was having trouble finding the right piece of carving. He was well mounted, as was his companion; and had pistols in his holsters, and a hanger at his girdle. ‘You should be.
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