A siphon and a whisky bottle stood before him. A chill ran through his frame, and, grasping the heavy weapon with which chance had provided him, prepared to strike down the first person who should enter the cell. “You are not going out—this evening, I trust,” that lady asked, a trifle dismayed. I shall have to discover one suitable. I was not even sure whether it was loaded. The farmer was a widow who was slightly famous around town for his prize cows and slightly more famous for his good looks. She was quite unconcerned. Fate has two methods of procedure—the sudden and the long-drawn-out.
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