A chill rain thrummed against the sides of John’s car, having slowed from deluge to steady patter, the snow was 158 dissolved where it lay. There were one or two bitter moments in his life when he had been made to feel that gentility laid on with a brush may sometimes crack and show weak places—that deportment and breeding are after all things apart. Otherwise, every effort has been made to remain true to the author's words and intent. Kneebone," observed Shotbolt, as he emptied his tenth tumbler; "I'm sure he's meditating an escape, and hopes to accomplish it to-night. There are certain smells, certain tinges to the air. ‘And just who is Leonardo?’ ‘How in God’s name should I know?’ demanded Roding irascibly. Oh God! pardon me. I forget.
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