Upon the pavement near the court lay the porter, who had been prostrated by a blow from the butt-end of a pistol. It was debauching, this—a devilish art which drew such strange allurements from a face and figure almost Madonna-like in their simplicity. But for all that, it offered relief; his brain, stupefied by the fumes, grew dull, and conscience lost its edge to bite. He would teach her all he knew of life so that if the Hand should ever reach his shoulder, she would be able to defend herself. “Yes, I know. And if you dare to produce any kind of weapon at all,’ he added, taking a plain brass-barrelled little pistol from his own pocket and levelling it, ‘I will have no compunction in blowing off your head, you madcap female.
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