There was no sense in creating further difficulties for herself by arguing with the sergeant over her identity. Her knees almost sank beneath her as she raised the latch of the front door and looked out. No, don’t interrupt me. But you, Ferringhall, our pattern, an erstwhile Sheriff of London, a county magistrate, a prospective politician, a sober and an upright man, one who, had he aspired to it, might even have filled the glorious position of Lord Mayor— James, a whisky and Apollinaris at once. I am quite indiscriminate, I assure you. ’ ‘Probably not.
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