‘Ah, yes,’ Gerald said, jumping down from the coach and waiting for the fellow to let down the steps for Melusine, ‘I had forgotten about you. My foster mother, Sheila, insists that I go to St. He glanced up. Chapter VI A QUESTION OF IDENTIFICATION The little man with the closely-cropped beard and hair looked at her keenly through his gold eye-glasses. “You seem to be taking our little joke more seriously than it deserves, Ferringhall,” he remarked. The blue jowl, the fat-lidded eyes—now merry, now alert, now tungsten hard—the bullet head, the pudgy fingers and the square-toed shoes were all in conformation with the doctor's olden mental picture. It was Ramage, the occupant of the big house at the end of the Avenue. “Then you—you will?” A long pause.
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