Spurlock dove headlong at the other's legs, toppling the man. Directed by the same individual, who had helped Darrell to steal a march upon him, Rowland, with Davies, and another attendant, continued the pursuit. At once. Roused by the bell tolling for evening service, Jack left the house. The walls were pristine white and unmarked except for two sconces and a rather colorless Monet poster that had been framed in an expensive oak surround. Sanguine they were not. Certainly not a gentlewoman. After all, the Wastrel was in luck: he was alone. Bravo!—the best cly-faker of 'em all couldn't have done it better.
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